


Tis the Season

by Kavi Leighanna (kleighanna)



Category: NCIS: Los Angeles
Genre: Christmas, F/M, Family, Friendship, Romance, annual self-christmas challenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-01
Updated: 2013-11-20
Packaged: 2017-11-20 03:11:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 25
Words: 49,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/580660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kleighanna/pseuds/Kavi%20Leighanna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hetty's Christmas gift is one that keeps on giving.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. December 1, 2012

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome one, welcome all to my 2012 Annual Christmas Fic!
> 
> For those of you who don't know, annually, I post 25 chapters in 25 days. It's a challenge I set myself many years ago and I've yet to miss a year. Quite obviously, it hasn't always been an NCIS LA fic, but apparently I'm either feeling like seriously challenging myself or suicidal. It has yet to be determined which I am.
> 
> A couple of quick warnings: I'm not always perfect about getting chapters up every day. This is my life. Having said that, I have never missed the deadline. Well, once, but it was my second run at this. I've learned. Also, any aired episode is fair game. I usually try and work within the context of airdates (so anything up to today is fair game and when the next episode airs, anything up to that is fair game, etc) and I will not go back and change things that I've already written to fit with canon.
> 
> Thanks! And a pre-thanks for reading!

Kensi's the last one into the bullpen on December first. It's not a terribly odd occurrence, they're all late from time to time, but it does mean that she finds the entirety of her OSP team in various states of surprise and confusion over long, relatively thin, rectangular boxes.

"I don't trust anything wrapped up in bright packaging," Callen says as Kensi slips around her desk. They exchange greeting smiles.

"Everything comes in bright packaging this time of year," Deeks retaliates with a three-year-old's grin. "It's Christmas."

"It's December first," Sam counters with a roll of his eyes. "Christmas is still twenty-three days away."

"Says the last minute shopper," shoots Callen, a half-smirk playing about his mouth.

"Christmas is my favourite," Eric says with relish, holding his box tightly. "All the presents and decorations and lights and people are just nicer."

"It's a figment of your imagination," Nell responds.

Kensi's only half listening to the bickering. Her eyes are fixed on her own parcel, wrapped in bright red, festive, paper. And topped with a massive silver bow. It makes her smile gently. It's a weird feeling because Christmas has never really been her favourite holiday season. She doesn't like Easter either, and Thanksgiving irks her, but Christmas has usually depressed her. This year feels lighter, like something's changed, or maybe it's just that they all need the holiday season this year. They've been through a lot with the Chameleon and Jada Khalid, Director Granger, her father's case… They deserve a break and some light-hearted fun. Even as Special Agents.

"It's not like we can get outside mail in here," Deeks points out, even as he shakes his box again. "So let's open them."

"What if they're not for us?" Callen asks.

Sam rolls his eyes. "Even Hetty wouldn't pull a trick like that."

"Quite right, Mister Hanna." Hetty stands in the opening to the rest of the hacienda, her hands folded in front of her. Kensi smiles, just a little, because it seems Hetty's getting into the spirit of the season early. She's wearing bright red, a holly broach pinned on her lapel. "Well, go on now, open up."

Deeks tears into his with the glee of a child and Eric follows suit. Kensi prefers to take her time with her presents, but stops at Deeks' triumphant shout. However, when she looks up he's eyeing the thing like it's going to explode.

"Oh," Nell says softly as she drops her wrapping paper to the floor. "An advent calendar."

"Advent calendar?" Callen asks.

"It's a German Lutheran tradition," Nell says, "to count down the days until Christmas."

"Correct, Miss Jones," Hetty says with an approving smile. "It dates back to the early nineteenth century when a man by the name of Gerhard Lang produced the first advent calendar by hanging coloured pictures on a piece of cardboard. Today's calendars are much more elaborate than that."

"Lego makes one," Eric pipes up immediately. "You actually get to put together a little Lego thing every day."

"I had a cloth one," Nell adds. "My parents used to fill it with little presents from the dollar store."

"We're a strictly chocolate house," Sam agrees.

Hetty's face goes serious. "Well, these definitely do not have little sweets in them. I do believe it has been a rather difficult year for all of us. And the holiday season is the perfect time to… relax a little."

"Relax?" Callen asks cautiously. He's suspicious, not that it's new. Kensi can't help but be a little thrown herself.

"I don't get it, Hetty," she says. "What kind of advent calendars are these?"

That serious face turns into one that has them all catching their breath. Hetty's mysterious face is something to behold and one with the twinkle rarely boads well for any of them. "Open the first window."

Every head drops to a calendar and Kensi finds herself pausing to run her fingers over the decorated cardboard. It's a work of art to be sure, painted with brilliant silver snowflakes over a winter scene that belongs more in Montana or North Dakota than here in LA. The numbers are scattered so it takes her a moment to find the first window. She pries it open with her nail gently. Inside is a little piece of green paper. She pulls it out carefully, glancing up to see the team doing the same.

"Do something nice for someone," Deeks reads out loud. Then he smiles. "Well, good thing that's the first thing on my list every day."

"And how many days do you accomplish it?" Kensi asks with her own sweet smile. Needling Deeks is second nature now.

He just offers a waggle of eyebrows as he holds up his breakfast. "Want my last bacon?"

"That is not what that is meant to be about, Mister Deeks," Hetty reprimands. "You will need to do better than simply offering Miss Blye a piece of your breakfast. I mean really doing something nice, something unexpected. Tomorrow you will open the next window and so on and so forth."

"Until Christmas?" Callen asks skeptically. "Seriously Hetty?"

"Of course, Mister Callen. It's good to explore new traditions." There's a core of steel in the Operations Manager's voice that would rattle the cockiest of agents. "I will be watching."

"I thought it was supposed to be fun," Deeks murmurs as Hetty walks away.

"I heard that, Mister Deeks."

Kensi smirks at her partner. "Serves you right."

"I think it's cool," Eric says. "Makes you pay more attention to people you care about." His eyes dart to Nell adorably.

Nell blushes, just a little. "Exactly. It's the perfect time for it." She turns to Deeks. "Somewhere in that pile of chaos that is your desk are your time sheets. You have a twenty-four hour reprieve before I bring Hetty in." She offers him her sweetest of smiles. "I think that counts as a nice thing for the day."

She strolled primly out of the bullpen, leaving Deeks spluttering in her wake.

The advent calendars turn out to be the only real shocking part of the day. They all spend the day monitoring other cases, watching out for forensic reports, singing off on briefings from older cases, and generally spending their time floating in and out of the bullpen. As the day comes to a close, Kensi leans back, her eyes moving to her advent calendar. She can't help the spark of anticipation that lights in her gut. She's always been a fan of the secrets. It's half the fun of the job she's currently doing. The puzzles, trying to work it all out, digging deeper, asking the right questions, it's all what drives her on from day to day.

"What's got you so wistful?"

She looks up to find Callen strolling back in, two take out containers in his hands. She expects him to set one down on Sam's desk, but he brings them both around to his desk, settling in his chair as he waits for her answer.

"Nothing," she answers, even as her cheeks heat just slightly.

He arches an eyebrow, but says nothing. She likes that about Callen. He doesn't push, even if he does know that sitting there, looking so infuriatingly smug, is likely to send her spilling her secrets anyway. She holds her ground and sees something akin to admiration in his eyes as he slides the second container towards her.

"What?"

He shrugs. "You haven't eaten."

She blinks in surprise and looks down. He's stopped at a food truck, of course, but it's one that she loves. It's one she's been to enough that the guy who runs in has her meal ready to go when he sees her at the corner of the street. And sure enough, her favourite is in that box, a steaming heap of creamy mac and cheese. She's not sure if it's the fact that he knows her favourite that has her stomach flipping over or the idea that she's the only one he's brought a meal back for when Sam and Deeks are floating around somewhere. She hadn't even asked. He's right, of course, she hasn't eaten all day, and her stomach reminds her quite brutally of this fact as she inhales the enticing aroma of her dinner.

"Thanks," she says quietly, unsure of how to respond. She's not entirely sure this is what Hetty meant when she said do something nice either. Still, she takes the fork when he offers it and they fall into a comfortable silence as they both eat. They've done it relatively often and Kensi has to admit, it's one of her favourite things about Callen. Sometimes, she just needs some quiet, and unlike Deeks, he knows when to talk and when to keep his mouth shut. She's glad for it today.

"Did you have an advent calendar growing up?"

She's surprised at the question. "Like Nell's," she says carefully. It's not that she has trouble talking about her childhood, per se, she just knows that they all have their sore spots. She tries not to talk about things like family around Callen, not that she has much family to speak of. She's reconnected with her mother, sure, but it's nothing like what it had been when she'd been with her father. But he seems genuinely interested, so she goes on.

"He used to put candy in there mostly, little things that you couldn't get through the rest of the year. Sometimes they were things he picked up while he was overseas. When we were together he made a big production of it, opening the present, counting the days, watching me… I think it was as big of a deal to him as it was to me."

He nods and there's something in his eyes that's lighter when he looks at his own calendar. "Do you miss it?"

She shrugs. "I miss my dad more, I think." It doesn't mean she doesn't like Hetty's idea. She more than likes it. She's hoping for some fun ones, like tree hunting – even if it is a palm tree – or cookie baking; things she would do with her dad, with Jack, even if the memories sting a little. If the last year has taught her anything it's that sometimes you have to just move forward and create new memories instead of clinging to old painful ones.

"I never had one," he admits, not that it takes a genius to come to that conclusion.

"There's a first time for everything," she offers, unsure of what she's supposed to say.

Something's in his eyes when he looks at her and she doesn't know what it is. She's seen it before, when he looked at her so intently just a couple of weeks ago when he'd turned to her, his eyes chaotic in the midst of a string of sleeper agent deaths and months ago when they'd traded Callen for Janvier.

Then he offers her one of his half smirks. "Tis the season, then."

She grins.


	2. December 2, 2012

" _Come on, Kens. It'll be fun!"_

_Kensi stares at Jack and the bill he's holding out for her. "No. I won't do it. That's stupid. There's a Salvation Army kettle at the corner, I'll just go-"_

" _No." Jack's firm as he steers her away from the corner she's talking about, leaning his chin against her shoulder. "The idea is that it has to be a secret and it has to be a stranger."_

_She huffs. "It's a ridiculous idea. And what if they think I'm trying to pick their pockets?"_

" _You? Pick pockets? And get caught?" he murmurs and Kensi feels the smile tilt her mouth regardless. She's a sneaky thing, always has been. He wraps his arms around her from behind, hugging him to his chest. "It's Christmas, Kens. Spirit of giving."_

_She sighs. She's still not sure how he can convince her to do anything he asks. She's stubborn, so very stubborn. Her father used to tell her she was the most stubborn female he'd ever met. But she's an absolute softie for the man currently snuggling into her neck. She laughs as his stubble tickles at her skin. "Fine, fine! Just… stop."_

_He grins and she rolls her eyes. He loves the effect he can have on her with a brush of his fingers. It drives her nuts._

_They wander for over an hours, wherever their feet take them. Kensi's got the bill wadded up in her pocket. She sticks her fingers in every once in a while, rubbing against a corner and not really caring that she's probably wiped off more germs than a quarantine unit. Her heart is beating wildly in her chest as she takes in the people. She's had a few ideas, but none of them have felt right. If she's going to get into the spirit of giving, then she's going to do it right._

_She appreciates it, really. Jack knows about her father, knows about her Christmas traditions and despite the fact that they've been together for two Christmases now, he doesn't push her into more than she's ready for. He's letting her take her time, letting her make the tradition her own despite the fact that she can all but feel the anxiousness coming off him in waves. He's nervous, she realizes, and she's not sure why. Maybe because he's scared she won't be able to do it – yeah right, she's just picky, that's all – or maybe he's just nervous that she doesn't like the idea – which is stupid, she's head over heels for the idea because it reminds her of the giving back her father drilled into her head – but it's starting to skate along her nerves._

_She sighs. "It has to be perfect," she says to him, even as she looks around the crowded street. "The right person, the right time, the right situation."_

_He's watching the way her eyes dart around to all the people, and reaches for the hand not constantly fingering the dirty bill in her pocket. She can feel some of the anxiety wash away, some of his nerves settle. "Okay."_

" _If I wanted easy, I could have put it in that kettle," she mumbles, squeezing his hand as she keeps looking._

_Then she finds it._

_Well, she finds her._

_There's a woman sitting on a park bench, watching the children play, looking both anxious and exhausted. Her clothes are neat and clean, but definitely not the designer brands Kensi often sees around LA. They're well-worn, well-loved. As she watches, the woman calls out towards two children wrestling in the dirt. Something about the woman's posture draws Kensi in and she knows she's found her recipient._

" _Her," she says quietly to Jack. "She's a mother of two."_

_Jack takes the scene in quickly, then looks back to her. "Well?"_

" _Patience," she murmurs. "It has to be right."_

_He huffs, but she can feel the way he vibrates at her shoulder. He's excited, and she can feel it welling up in her too. The woman takes a boy's hand in each of her own and they set off, walking slowly because both boys get distracted here and there. Eventually, they stop across the street from a shelter for battered women. Kensi's breath catches and she feels Jack reach for her hip. The idea hits her in a split second and she turns to press a hard kiss to his mouth._

" _Catch me if you can."_

_She's off, dodging between people, but her eyes on that woman. The boys want to cross the street, but she's making them wait, double and triple checking both that the street is clear of cars and, Kensi can see, that it's otherwise safe. She doesn't know if the woman's ashamed of the fact that she's in a shelter or if she's looking for the individual that's put her there, but it gives Kensi the right opening._

_She bumps into the woman, as gently as she can to keep the little family from tumbling out into the street. Her aim is swift and true and she manages to slip the bill into the woman's jacket pocket as she stops to quickly apologize. When she glances up, Jack's gained on her, so she grins and squeals like a happy child, taking off again. She lets him catch her a few steps away though, lets the woman see that this isn't an assailant chasing his victim as Jack's arms wrap tightly around her waist, lifting her into the air as she giggles._

_It's all crashing down on her, the thrill of giving away, the idea that she's found the perfect little family to donate it to, and the pride that not only did she really do it secretly, but that her father would be proud of her and Jack._

_Jack puts her back on her feet, spinning her and pressing his mouth to hers. She lifts on her toes to kiss him back, pouring all of the joy into their kiss. They're both breathless when they pull away, but she's beaming._

" _Can we do it again?"_

* * *

Kensi had taken her advent calendar home. She's glad for it, as she sit staring at the door for December 2nd, a day off. She doesn't want to have to cart herself into the office just to see what's behind door number two and she most certainly doesn't want to fall behind. That's more of a Deeks thing, and she has a goal.

She'd thought about it last night, long after she'd finished dinner with Callen and headed home. It was time, she decided, to write new memories. Really write new memories. It was time to, well, rediscover the Christmas season. There were so many things she missed doing, so many things that held memories too painful to dredge up.

Not this year, and the resolve solidifies again as she stares at door number two. This year she's going to make time for all those things she misses. She's not going to wait for Deeks to invite her to the shelter he volunteers at. She's going to smile when the barista at Starbucks hands her a Christmas cup. She's not going to shy away from the lights or wreaths. Maybe she'll even think about putting up some of her own.

She's reaching for door two when her phone rings. She groans. She'd been looking forward to the time off. She wants to just open her advent calendar in the quiet of her apartment and puzzle over Hetty's clue away from Deeks' judging eyes. She loves her partner dearly, but some things a girl just needs to do in her own way. But it's not Deeks' name on her caller display.

"Callen?"

"Have you opened the window?"

She blinks. Callen calls for cases. Callen calls for updates or lunch orders. Callen doesn't call over something like advent calendars. She finds her face heating up, worried that maybe her awe and memories had shone through despite how closely she holds so much of herself. "About to."

He huffs and she almost laughs, because he sounds uncharacteristically childish. Sure, Callen throws himself into whatever is asked of him, but an advent calendar presented to him by their Operations Manager? Kensi definitely expects more resistance than childish frustration. "It doesn't make sense."

Oh. Well. Maybe she needs to take it back.

She wedges the phone between her shoulder and her ear, reaching out to slide a nail in the cardboard window. She pries it open carefully to find a fifty-dollar bill wedged in the little box. There's no note. She wants to say something about the gift of giving, because she doesn't really think Hetty wanted them to keep the money.

"We're supposed to give it away," she blurts out, unsure of where the words even come from.

"What?"

"It's the spirit of giving," she says and unknowingly, her voice has softened as she looks at the simple bill. She's got a handful in her wallet but something about looking at that bill has her heart filling. She has an idea. An idea of a million years ago, almost a different lifetime to her. But she's making new memories, good memories and she feels the giddy excitement well up inside her. She's never given this much away, but she can feel the warmth suffusing her body, the challenge welling up.

She doesn't realize she's already standing until she reaches for her jacket. LA's not cold, by any means, but for someone who has lived in the city a while, a jacket is necessary for December's cooler temperatures.

"The spirit of giving." He sounds incredibly skeptical and she almost laughs.

"I'm coming to get you," she says, and it's all impulse. But she's giddy and excited. She remembers the thrill of sneaking money into pockets and kettles, ensuring no one knew it was donated, or no one knew she'd done it. She hasn't done it years and she wonders briefly if her skills as an agent will be a help or a hindrance this time. "I have a plan."

"That scares me."

She rolls her eyes, grinning brightly. She can't help it. She's excited. She likes the idea of sharing the tradition with Callen, of making it her own in this little way. And in the process, honouring both Jack and the memories she holds in her heart.

. . . . .

He's at OSP, which isn't a surprise. Neither are the calendars on Deeks and Sam's desks. Callen's call makes her wonder if they're the only ones about to take this calendar challenge seriously. He's still staring at the fifty-dollar bill, but he looks up as she swings around the gate. That looks is back in his eyes again as he looks at her, all glee and pent up excitement.

"Well?" she asks, almost bouncing on her toes. "Are you coming?"

Callen can't remember the last time he's seen Kensi so excited. She, like him, is rather indifferent to the upcoming holiday and the mood they share is generally much more subdued. But a man would have to be dead to miss the way the excitement lights up her face, and would have to be much stronger than he, if they wanted to resist that invitation.

So he pushes himself up, taking the bill from the calendar with him. He tucks it into his pocket as he falls into step with her. "So what's this plan?"

"In a minute," she says, excitement turning to mystery.

He remembers, belatedly, that he hates Kensi's driving and pulls himself gingerly from the passengers seat when she parks. There's nothing particularly descript about the area of Los Angeles she's chosen, but that doesn't deter Kensi's bouncing mood. On the contrary, either she spots something immediately or this is exactly what she's looking for because the excitement doesn't diminish one iota.

"After my dad died," she starts, eyes darting around the street, as she turns left out of the parking lot. They're on foot now, weaving through the general pedestrian traffic. "And I had Jack, he'd always try and cheer me up around the holidays."

Callen knows the feeling. Well, kind of. At least the one he's pretty sure she's referring to. A few of his foster families had celebrated with a massive Christmas season, but the ones that didn't coloured his entire outlook on the season.

"One year, he created this jar. I wasn't sure what it was, but we each put money into it. I figured it was going to end up being some sort of trip or something. Turns out, we saved for a year and one day in December, he pulled all of the bills and coins out. We'd saved so much. He changed it all to whole bills and gave me one. I had to give it to someone who needed it, without anyone knowing."

The idea she's been speaking of since he called is starting to formulate in his brain now, but he lets her go on. Kensi talking so freely about Jack, let alone the holidays, is not something to be interrupted.

"The only one I can really remember is the first one. I waited and waited and waited. It had to be perfect. I had the bill in my pocket and Jack was getting impatient at my back, and then I saw this woman, two boys, and we followed them back to a women's shelter." She turns to him now, her eyes alight and fierce. He doesn't know why she's sharing all this or what has cracked her shell enough that she's just told him that story, but he keeps his mouth shut, still unwilling to break the spell. "I could feel the adrenaline, the nerves, but I'd had practice at picking pockets and this is just the reverse. It felt so good afterwards. And we kept doing it until we'd run out of money from that jar."

He waits for another moment to see if there's more to the story. When she doesn't go on, he says, "And you think that's what Hetty wants us to do?"

"Not that elaborate," she admits. "But."

He gets it. They could just put it in a kettle and be on their way, maybe find the closest children's charity and make a donation. But that's quick and easy and Callen senses that Kensi's got something deeper at work here. While he may find the idea tedious and a waste of time, it's not like he would have been doing anything better back in OSP headquarters. "Lead on."

She looks at him, surprised and maybe touched he thinks. "Really?"

"Really," he agrees. Part of him figures there's nothing he can lose, and Kensi's excitement is surprisingly infectious. "Pick your first victim."

It's amazing to see the focus Kensi regularly employs in her work focused on a non-work-related task. He doesn't spend much time with the team outside of the office – Sam excluded, of course – and he's not familiar with the glee shining on Kensi's face. It makes her look impossibly young, like the damage of the world doesn't affect her. He knows better, of course, because they're all damaged and they all have their fair share of betrayals and heartbreaks, but it's worth something to see most of that drain away from Kensi's frame.

If he's honest, she's the one he worries about most. It's not that she can't take care of herself because he's seen her worm her way out of impossible situations, but about the aftermath. They all take pieces of the job home with them and he worries that maybe Kensi takes more than most. It's why she and Deeks fit so well as partners. The detective is brighter, happier, wouldn't drag Kensi down the way he and Sam can.

So he watches her, feels the excitement and the spirit of the game infuse him from where her elbow casually and periodically brushes against his.

"Well?" she asks after a while, turning her head to the side to regard him. "When are you going to step up, Callen?"

"I'm waiting for you."

She grins, a childish glee sparkling in her eyes. "I gave mine away twenty minutes ago."

And he'd missed it? What the hell had he been doing? He finds himself blinking in surprise, impressed that she's managed to give away her bill without giving herself away too. Sometimes, her skills absolutely terrify him.

Then he sees the kid. Can't be more than maybe twelve, hiding in an alcove. He knows what that means, even if he doesn't know if that's the kid's home. Kensi slows beside him and he's not sure if it's because she's seen the kid too or if she knows he has. His soft-spot for foster children is difficult to miss.

He plays this game all the time and she does too, so she barely flinches when he flashes her a grin and takes her hand. She'll play along, like she always does, though she looks just as giddy at the idea as he feels. The little alcove the kid's picked is the front door to a convenience store and he takes advantage, pulling Kensi with him. She barely blinks as she reaches for the door, giving him enough time to find a way to slip the money gently and carefully into the kid's jacket.

She's right, he realizes as he watches her browse the aisles. It feels good. It feels more than good. There's adrenaline pumping through his system, glee warring with the triumph of a skill well-used. Ten minutes later, she's offering him chips from the bag she'd finally chosen as they continue to wander down the street.

"So?"

She's nervous and it's kind of funny. "Hell of an adventure for my second day with this advent calendar stuff."

But Kensi's known him long enough to know how to read between the lines and she grins, going back to that excitement that had him positive she'd be literally bouncing any second. "Stick with me," she says smugly. "I'm a pro."

He grins back.


	3. December 3, 2012

" _What about you, honey?"_

_Kensi looks up, startled at being addressed. She's one of the youngest ones at the shelter this year, and she really hadn't anticipated anyone speaking to her. The table's all looking at her and while she's usually spooked by her fellow individuals on the street, there's one woman looking at her with compassion and sympathy. "What?"_

" _What's your favourite thing about Christmas?"_

" _I don't have one," she says, aware that bitterness is shining in her voice. She can't do anything about it, really. She is honestly angry. She's angry at her father, angry at his murderer, angry at her mother for leaving and for poisoning Kensi against finding her, the list is long._

" _Now that's ridiculous," one of the other women pipes up. "Did you hear that Jerry? She doesn't have a favourite thing about Christmas."_

_There's a father across the table from her, trying to feed a kid. The shelter's provided some soup along with the beds to combat the relative chill of Los Angeles in December. "You're too young to be so jaded," he says quietly. "Even if this year is bad, maybe next year won't be."_

_She wants to ask him how he can say that when he's sitting in a shelter with his young child, but wisely bites her tongue. She is a baby compared to the rest – the kid excluded, of course – so really, what does she know. Right now, she knows the streets, the wandering, the survival instinct. She's never been so glad for the things her father taught her in her life. She's only been on the streets for a handful of months and she can feel the weight of it all pressing down on her. She sees the lights, the happy families, the presents in windows and she is jealous._

_It's more complicated, of course, because it's not necessarily that she's jealous of what they have. Sure, she doesn't have a home or a Christmas tree, lights or decorations, but that's like the dressing. She doesn't have a family. She doesn't have a home in the emotional sense. All she has are the people around this table right now and she knows none of them. How can she even think about a holiday her father made so special when she's confronted by her own loneliness day in and day out?_

_Her father is dead._

_She doesn't have a home._

_She doesn't have friends._

_She hates this time of year._

" _Every Christmas Eve we used to go caroling in the neighbourhood," an old man says, a few seats over from Kensi. "Just door to door, collecting money for charity. My wife, bless her soul, couldn't sing worth a damn, not that she cared."_

" _I had a friend like that," someone else pipes up, "sounded like a dying cat."_

_The table roars with laughter. Kensi's mouth lifts in a small smile._

" _When I was a little boy we had an advent wreath. Real one, where we lit the candles every Sunday and did the prayers and that. We all had busy lives, but we put aside an hour every Sunday for that."_

_The stories keep going. A woman in neon green tights used to watch a movie marathon, back when she had a TV. A man recounts the smiles on the faces of little children when he dressed as Santa. One of the staff members gets roped into the question. He used to play the piano while his family sang carols around him. All it all, it's very warm and fuzzy._

" _Come on, honey. You have to have some story."_

_She forces herself to take a deep breath, to keep her cool despite the fact that she wants to just yell at them. 'My father's dead,' she wants to say, 'and Christmas died with him.'_

_She's not entirely sure what makes her bite back her nasty words. Maybe it's the season, maybe it's the lessons and morals she's had drilled into her. Either way, she can't bring herself to ruin someone else's Christmas spirit because hers is nonexistent._

" _No," she says instead. "No stories here."_

_They leave her alone after that and Kensi watches them all laugh, despite the bleak nature of their situations. She doesn't understand it. Her world's falling apart and it doesn't seem like anyone else is in the same boat. She's in a shelter, for goodness sakes, and it doesn't seem to phase some of them._

_Later that evening, the woman who prodded her about her Christmas traditions corners Kensi in the bathroom. "Can I give you some advice, sweetheart?"_

_Kensi almost rolls her eyes, but offers her tightest smile. Maybe this'll be faster than trying to make a break for it._

" _You're too young to be here," she says. "Me, I've lost my family. My husband, my kids, and I dove into the bottle. Now I don't have anywhere, and that's okay with me. But you're young, too young. You should be out there exploring what the world has to offer. You should be lighting up at the prospect of the holiday season, rather than wondering if you can drown yourself in your soup."_

_The woman steps closer and Kensi finds herself speeding through attack plans as the woman's hand comes up. But the hand drops to her shoulder and the woman's eyes are clear and sincere._

" _People make memories, honey. And whether we still have them or not, they're good memories, memories that deserve to be honoured. I may not have a house or a family or even a damn job, but those people out there, they're the best I've got. They're family. Because I wanted them to be family._

" _I don't know why you're out here, don't know the circumstances around your homelessness, but you've got a broken look to you and it is too early for those eyes. So you pick yourself up and you dust yourself off and you find a family of your own, whether it's on the streets or somewhere else. You can pretend you don't need people all you want, but that's not true for any of us."_

_Then the woman offers her a small smile. "Merry Christmas."_

* * *

Kensi's determined when she walks into the bullpen on Monday. She can't help it. In theory, she's already accomplished the task for the day, but she has something bigger in mind.

She's been thinking all night – insomnia isn't just for cases – about her afternoon with Callen. Since they all have their little triggers, Kensi's never really pitied Callen for his upbringing. Felt sympathy, sure, but she's also aware of how it feels to be abandoned and left alone. Unlike Callen, however, she's had people along the way to soften her edges.

Not that Callen needs softening, per se, she tells herself. It's more that she knows traditions are more fun when done with someone else. And if Callen really is game to do all of the little tasks Hetty's assigned them, then she wants to be there. She and Callen are relatively close, as close as either of them will allow a friend to be. Who better to make new memories with than a friend?

So with today's task tucked neatly in her pocket, Kensi greets her teammates, gathered around the bullpen screen.

"See?" Deeks is saying as he hits pause. The screen freezes on two Santas. "Seriously. Over one kettle. It was all over the news this morning."

"Only you would find fighting Santas amusing," Sam shoots back, but there's a smile playing about his mouth that says he's pretty entertained by it too.

Callen's face, as usual, is indifferent, that little smirk that is so characteristic of him playing about his mouth. He's just watching, she realizes as she slides into her seat. He offers her a nod. She inclines her head.

"Everybody who walks by," Callen answers her unasked question. "I've seen the clip seven times."

"And isn't it still hilarious? Kens, you need to-"

"That's disgusting."

All heads turn to Nell. She's wearing an elf's hat and a formidable frown. "It's Christmas."

"And even Santa loses his temper," Deeks replies. "It was all over the news."

"It's disgusting." Then Nell composes herself, hugging the files in her arms closer to her chest. "You're wanted in Ops."

They troop up the stairs, Deeks and Sam first, still discussing the Santa fight. Kensi hangs back a bit. If they're about to delve into a case, she wants to take advantage of the three seconds in front of her. "Hey," she says.

"What's up?"

She pulls the slip of paper from her pocket. "December third."

"Share a tradition," he nods. "Do you think yesterday counts?"

She starts to take offense, to back off, but then one of his eyebrows wings up and she rolls her eyes. "I had an idea. It depends on how serious you are about the advent calendar."

He shrugs, but there's something else. She can see it because she's looking for it. She's long ago learned to read between the lines with him. "I liked yesterday."

She ignores the weird warmth that flares in her chest. "Me too," she finds herself saying. "I haven't done that in years."

Callen cocks his head to the side as they climb the stairs slowly. He's listening, waiting for her to tell him what she's thinking.

"Let's do it together." The air whooshes out of her when the words are out of her mouth. She's not sure she really realized how nervous she was to even ask, let alone wait for the answer. "The advent calendar."

The spark lights in his eyes again, the same one that had been there yesterday, the one that makes her stomach take up Olympic-level gymnastics. The latter is an irritating reaction. "The advent calendar."

She's not sure if it's a 'yes' or a 'no', but she doesn't get the chance to ask. Deeks pokes his head out of the Ops room.

"Jeeze, Kens, I know you like to take your time, but this is ridiculous."

Kensi glares.

. . . . .

She doesn't get an answer from Callen that day, not that she really expected to. They're busy running down leads, talking to families, loved ones, coworkers. The best she does is pass him in the hall, lunch half way in her mouth as she rushes to Nell and Eric to pass on some info.

She falls onto her couch well after two, and her eyes slam shut. She's got the beginning of what may be a headache at the bottom of her skull and she's tired. She can run on adrenaline and she's good at it, but even the formidable Kensi Blye hits the end of her rope. So when her phone rings, she groans.

She clicks it on without checking the ID. "Blye."

There's silence for a moment and she opens her mouth to say hello before the person speaks. "I remember one tradition."

"Callen?"

"I was young. It was one of the good ones. They had a tree and lights and they got something for each kid. Even the foster ones. I think there were eight of us."

Busy house, she thinks, but doesn't dare speak. She knows how rare it is for Callen to speak of his foster homes.

"But the thing I remember most is that they took us all to find it. Piled eight kids into two of the oldest cars ever. They let us loose on the place. It was the first time I'd ever looked for a Christmas tree. None of the other homes had celebrated. They even had all of the decorations spread out in the living room. We each hung some on the tree, but what I remember most, is my foster mom taking me aside later, knowing I'd never really celebrated Christmas. She pulled me from my bed and made me lie on my back, looking up through the branches of the tree."

His voice is matter of fact, straight to the point. So Callen. There's no emotion in what he's saying, no flowery language, but she can feel it. There's a squeezing in the vicinity of her chest. She's surprised to feel liquid sliding down her face despite the massive grin on her face.

"Sometimes, I still dream about it."

Kensi bites her lip to keep the embarrassing sound welling in her throat from escaping. But she knows she can't comment. She can't say anything. It's such a rare honour to hear a story like that and she knows the role she has to play now. It's time to change the subject.

"My dad gave me a Cadbury Crème Egg every year. Never on the same day, always wrapped in green tissue paper. I'd unwrap it, and we'd crack it open, eat all the insides, then we'd split the chocolate. It's not a big deal, but it was big to us."

Callen's quiet on the other end, and she knows part of that is a vulnerability she had never, ever expected from him. "Let's do the advent calendar, Kens."

He hangs up without a goodbye. She hadn't expected one. It doesn't matter anyway, because she's grinning, giddiness swelling up in her.

She couldn't wait for tomorrow.


	4. December 4, 2012

_Kensi wakes to soft butterfly kisses across her cheeks, her forehead, her closed eyelids. She groans and rolls from her side to her back._

" _Good morning, Sleeping Beauty."_

_Her eyes flutter open to find Jack grinning down at her. "What time is it?"_

" _Early," he replies, ducking his head to pepper kisses across her neck and exposed shoulders. She squirms. "I brought you a present."_

_If it's as early as Kensi's pretty sure it is – Jack isn't known for sleeping in – she does not want to be awake yet, even for presents. And not even for the tempting way Jack's mouth is pressing against her skin. So instead of sitting up in excitement, she threads a hand through his hair and settles back into the pillows. "Presents can wait." He presses his tongue to her collarbone and despite the pick up of her pulse, Kensi groans. "So can that. I'm sleeping."_

" _You're wasting the day."_

_Her eyes open and she takes his face in her hands now, tugging him up until she looks him in the eye. "If I roll over and that clock says anything before eight, you're sleeping on the couch."_

_Jack catches her head, delving his fingers into her hair to hold her steady. "Mm, better not look at that clock then," he says and kisses her._

_God, she's so weak. She gives in, like he knew she would, kissing him just as fiercely. His hands are roaming and hers aren't still either until they break the kiss, gasping for air._

" _What do you have against sleep?" she manages to pant breathlessly._

" _Nothing," he answers as he nuzzles her neck. "There are just so many other, better, things to do."_

" _Like what?" she finds herself asking. "And where's my present?"_

" _Demanding." But he's smiling, propping himself on one elbow to reach for her bedside table. He returns with a mug, setting it gently on her sternum. The heat hits her first and she gasps, surprised at the heat in comparison to the cool air of the apartment. The smell hits her next and she groans._

" _Hot chocolate? Again? Can't you just bring me coffee like a normal person?"_

" _You drink too much coffee."_

_She glares. "You'll switch that for coffee if you know what's good for you."_

_The cup disappears from her chest. When he returns, it's without a mug and his hands slide down her arms. He's got her wrists before she realizes what he's doing and it's too late to fight back. He yanks them above her head, pinning her to the bed before she can fight back._

" _Jack!"_

_An hour later, the hot chocolate's more like chocolate milk, but Kensi's not feeling quite as hostile anyway. They're sitting up in bed, her head against his shoulder when she's not sipping from the mug, enjoying the time together before the chaos of the day starts._

_Though she'll never tell him, Kensi doesn't really have anything against these types of early mornings._

* * *

When Kensi had looked behind door number four, she'd almost laughed to herself. Hot chocolate is not often necessary with the LA climate. But now, after a very long day, as she walks through the bullpen, having ruined another one of Hetty's outfits by giving it an accidental dunking, she's rethinking her opinion.

"Shut up, all of you," she growls as she yanks her hair into a messy bun. She'd pulled the pins out in the car and tucked them safely into the outfit's little clutch. "When you guys are tossed in a freezing fountain in satin and heels, then you can laugh. Until then, shut up."

She knows they're all still sniggering. She'd seen herself in the rearview, she knows she looks more like a drowned rat than anything else, but they got the collar so while she's pissed, cranky and cold, there is a fission of pleasure that skates through her body when she thinks about it.

"Another casualty of war, Miss Blye?"

She sighs and offers Hetty a tiny smile. "I'm sorry Hetty."

The operations manager offers her a little smile and there's something in her eyes that puts Kensi's back up. It's not a trust thing, but the look in Hetty's eyes in one that tells Kensi Hetty knows something and she has a plan. "Better the dress than you, my dear."

It's a bit of a dismissal and Kensi takes full advantage, padding across the stones of the hacienda to the 'costume department'. Her clothes are still there and she changes into them swiftly. They're not much warmer and she yearns for the single pair of flannel pajamas she's kept at home. But there's paperwork and debrief, so she can't go home just yet.

When she returns to the bullpen, however, Callen is the only one left.

"Hetty's sending us home. Everything can wait until morning."

Kensi blinks, even though she's cheering internally. She's going to put Hetty's little gift for the day to good use, curl up in those flannel pajamas and think warm thoughts. At least, that's her plan until she's all packed up and ready to go while Callen's still sitting in his chair, bent over a file.

"I thought Hetty kicked us out?"

"I've got other work."

She can't say she likes that. With Callen's confession still remarkably fresh in her mind, considering, and his agreement to share the advent calendar with her floating through her exhausted mind, she has a different idea. "I'm taking my hot chocolate home. The one from the advent calendar."

He looks up at that, a little wary and, if she's reading him right, a little excited. "Oh?"

She smiles, a little self-deprecatingly. "That water was freezing."

There's a split second where sympathy darts across his face before it's back to that cocky half-smile. "You make a good drowned rat."

She just barely resists the urge to stick her tongue out at him. "Coming?"

"What?"

"The calendar, Callen. Hot chocolate. Coming?"

He's genuinely surprised by the invitation. Shocked enough, she thinks, to just roll with it. So she reaches over, closing the file in front of him and going as far as to open the door on his advent calendar for him. She tugs the little package out and waves it in front of his face, never more thankful for how comfortable they all are with each other.

"Or I can have it all myself."

The way he snatches the bag from her makes her jump. He's actually cradling it to his chest and it makes her blink. It's hot chocolate, not the Hope Diamond. Still, she beams at him and waits while he grabs his bag from beneath his desk. He gives her a wide birth and she laughs at the way he keeps the chocolate away from her. It's the most childish she's ever seen him, but she can't deny that she likes it. It's a different side of Callen and she wonders if it's the season that brings it out.

Now that he's celebrating of course.

She hasn't really told him the entirety of her plan. He doesn't know that she wants new happy memories of Christmas. He doesn't know how much she plans on taking Hetty's words about a break and a happy time of year to heart. And he most certainly doesn't know that his story about looking up at the lights of the tree had solidified a new decision in her mind. She's had good Christmases, lots of them. But not Callen. And she figures if she's making new memories for herself, it doesn't hurt to make them for someone else too.

It might take a little convincing, but Kensi doesn't really care. She's always liked challenges. Though, considering the way he's still eyeing her warily, his hot chocolate powder as far from her as he can get it, she's not sure it'll take as much as she'd thought. It makes her grin, her body warming at the delight coursing through her.

Maybe she really won't need that hot chocolate after all.

She makes it anyway, with Callen hovering at the edge of the tile that separates her little kitchen from the carpet of the rest of her apartment. It's shockingly nerve-wracking, probably because she knows the last time he was here, she was off trying to find her father's killer. And the place was a mess. She doesn't really remember that time fondly, even if it did end up giving her and her mother a reason to reconcile.

"Hot chocolate was Jack's thing," she finds herself revealing into the silence. She can't stand it when silence mixes with nerves. It's the one thing that can make her ramble like an idiot. She feels the words all crowding in her throat, even though she knows it's Callen, so Jack's off limits, because she  _doesn't share this stuff_. There was that one time, but that's extenuating circumstances.

But she cannot help herself. The silence is killing her. "He'd make it in the morning and it looks like coffee. I used to get so mad at him when he'd hand me a mug of hot chocolate instead of coffee." She laughs a little to herself as she decides both mugs are ready and hands one over to him. "We're not even really in a climate that means hot chocolate is a good treat on a cold day. It's never really that cold."

He's watching her intently, almost too intently, and if her nerves hadn't tipped her head long into rambling, the look on his face would. She has this thing where she can't stand strong under people who mean something to her. She bites her cheek – rather hard – as she faces him in the doorway to her kitchen. He's not moving, so she's just standing there, holding the mug, watching him absently move the spoon around in his. It's really making her antsy now. So much so that she's opening her mouth without realizing it.

His hand clamps down on her wrist and her mouth literally snaps shut. He's just looking at her, watching her, but there's something significant there. Something's happening. She feels it.

"Christmas means something to me," she finds herself saying, a little against her will. He does this to her and she doesn't understand it. He has a way with her where she just _talks_. Deeks tricks her into saying things, Sam just stares, but Callen… She's never figured it out.

He doesn't reply, just keeps watching her, like he's putting two and two together to get four when she's not really sure what adding is. It's a feeling that drives her nuts most days, but because of that significant Thing spread across his face, she doesn't feel as irritated. She's wary, she's a bit guarded because he can make her spill all her secrets, but she's not angry.

He breaks the moment and whatever significance has built, by stepping away and heading into the living room. He plops to her couch. "TV?"

She finds herself stuttering out a yes and almost stumbling over her own feet to the couch. She doesn't know what happened, but she does know one very important thing.

She wants it to happen again.

Soon.

And next time, she'll get answers.


	5. December 5, 2012

_He's had insomnia as long as he can remember. It's just a fact of his biology. Some families have cared enough to talk to a doctor, but most just tell him to stay in his room. He always tests, just once, to see what the reaction is._

_He's been in this house two weeks now. Not long, but certainly not the shortest. He hasn't been sleeping well, really, but he hasn't had a really bad night. Except this one. This one is bad._

_He rolls over with a heavy sigh, punching at his pillow and only vaguely hoping he doesn't wake his foster brother. But nothing seems to work and ten minutes later, he's throwing the covers off and heading out of his room._

_He likes this house, he'd decided last week. The people were nice, his foster parents were pretty great, and none of the other kids were mean or evil, to him or each other. He finds himself wondering absently how long he'll be around this time, as he heads down the hall. The staircase is at the end, past all the bedrooms, including his foster parents. He'd heard one of them come up to bed, but he's not too worried. Either way, he knows it's always better to haunt places no one will hear you._

_Still, he's slightly shocked to hear the murmur of the television when he hits the bottom of the steps. He darts into the kitchen. The clock says it's very late, too late for even adults to be up when they have to work the next day. But he's curious so he tiptoes to the living room. There's snow falling on the screen – he remembers it, kind of, but he's been in LA a long time and the climate just really isn't snow friendly – and he stands, transfixed, not even really aware of the story going on around it._

" _Hey, buddy. What are you doing up?"_

_The soft voice of his foster father startles him and he finds himself darting back behind the doorframe. His voice isn't mean or menacing, by any extent of the imagination, but he's not really willing to risk it._

" _Can't sleep?"_

_He waits for the feet around the doorframe, waits for the scolding and the rules. When they don't come, he pokes his head around again. His foster father is merely watching. There's no anger in the man's face, no irritation with the fact that one of the kids is up way past their bedtime. He wonders if maybe there's understanding in the man's face._

" _I can't either," his foster father says. "I have good nights and bad nights. Want to watch with me?"_

_He's baffled. Surprised, confused, all sorts of different emotions. He can't understand what's going on. No one has ever invited him to stay before. Most send him off to bed with a glass of water. One let him wander the main floor while everyone slept above. There was one that put a lock on his door when he snuck out the second time. Nothing like this. So he's tentative as he steps fully into the living room, but his foster father's back to watching the television again. He takes a chance, because it's not like he's never been in trouble before._

_There's nothing._

_They sit there, side by side, as they watch the characters on screen. He's more entranced by the light than anything else – he's_ tired _, it's his body that won't listen – and he's not really following the storyline, but he doesn't care. He feels special, sitting there, watching the movie when he's supposed to be up in bed._

_Eventually, he does fall asleep, and he wakes up the next morning in his own bed. He's never scolded, never punished, but his foster father takes him aside the next afternoon and talks to him about insomnia. He doesn't understand a lot of it – he's young – but he gets that it's not his fault. He even finds it kind of cool that some people just need less sleep than others, so their bodies just don't listen to the usual idea of 'bedtime'. He understands that he just as to roll with it._

_He's moved two weeks later._

* * *

Callen doesn't consider himself Scrooge. He's very familiar with Christmas – though he can't really say he's ever  _celebrated_  – and he doesn't get annoyed with the constant barrage of the season. He kind of takes it in stride, like Easter and Thanksgiving. Sam invites him over for dinner and he exchanges gifts like the rest of them, but really, Christmas isn't his thing.

So what the hell had made him agree to celebrate with Kensi?

Well, celebrate might be a strong word. He hasn't agreed to anything more than taking part in the advent calendar from Hetty. He has to admit, so far, it's been a fun. He'd enjoyed the thrill of hiding money in someone else's pockets and Kensi makes a mean cup of hot chocolate. They're only five days in, but he can't say he's regretting his decision to partake in the advent calendar. And there's Kensi.

He doesn't play favourites, but if he did, he's pretty sure Kensi would be it. He loves Sam like a brother, but there's something about Kensi that's always drawn him in. He's not entirely sure what it is since it's not like he has a hero complex and she's no damsel in distress. She carries a gun. She's kicked his ass a few times and he admires her all the more for it. He'd been utterly floored when she asked about the advent calendar, then inexplicably thrilled. He's yet to be disappointed.

But he's not an idiot. Kensi's offer is uncharacteristic and definitely part of the draw of his own agreement. He's learned, time and time again, he doesn't have a monopoly on mysterious enigma. There's a lot of Kensi and still some of Sam he doesn't know, pieces of themselves they keeps hidden. So yeah, he likes the idea of celebrating Christmas well enough, but he has to admit – if only to himself – a huge part of the desire to do this advent calendar with her stems from the fact that this is a piece of her he doesn't know.

Plus, she seems to be able to figure out what each of the day's little gifts are with much more ease than he does.

Today, for example. The USB stick had been driving him insane. It didn't seem like a normal gift, didn't seem like there was really anything to do. The things were for storing information. What kind of information about the holidays could be written on a USB drive. Then Kensi had solved it for him. With a few quick movements, she'd snatched the device from his hand and plugged it into her computer.

" _It's a Wonderful Life_ ," she'd said triumphantly as she'd turned the screen to face him. "Christmas classic. I've got  _How the Grinch Stole Christmas_. The Dr. Seuss one."

Movies. Holiday films. They'd each received a different one and though Deeks had wanted to plan a day for all of them to watch each film, no one else seemed to have their heart set on it. Even Kensi had managed to come up with some sort of excuse as to why she couldn't come. The look she'd darted him after hadn't been insignificant. He wasn't innocent himself. In fact, he'd told a whopper. Yet, he really didn't feel guilty standing in front of Kensi's apartment door, the little USB key stuffed in his pocket.

She answered the door in pajamas. He couldn't blame her. His presence was a surprise. But he'd wanted to surprise her, to take her off-guard. Kensi generally answers whatever he asks, but he doesn't want to risk it tonight. He has questions, he's going to get some answers, and he's not above using dirty tactics to do it. Like Christmas movies.

He sees her movie on her television, an elaborate system of cords and Bluetooth equipment. It was a rather phenomenal set up and he was a little jealous. And glad he'd chosen to come by.

"I-" Her mouth closes, then she shakes her head, like she's frustrated with herself. When she's not on the job, she's ridiculously easy to read. Especially when he takes her off-guard. He finds it amusing and, though it's a word he doesn't usually associate with the woman in front of him, kind of adorable.

She offers him a rueful smile. "Beer?"

He nods, moving further into the room and kicking off his shoes at the door. He marvels, once again, at the clutter of her apartment. Not a lot of space, and yet she has things everywhere. It's a stark difference from his tight bed corners and Spartan living room. It feels more like a house a person should have, but with all the moving he does, with the nomadic lifestyle he tends to prefer, he's not the type to really accumulate stuff.

Then she returns with his beer and he focuses on the task at hand. "Why did you lie to Deeks?"

She looks over at him, a deer in the headlights. "What?"

"Today. You told him Christmas movies weren't your thing." It had been the worst lie he'd ever heard. While Sam celebrates 'the most', Kensi's not that far behind. She has good memories to fall back on, rather than none at all.

She looks down at her fingers, woven together in her lap. When she looks back up at him his heart squeezes traitorously in his chest. "Deeks talks," she says. "Through every movie, ever show, and Christmas movies-"

She doesn't finish the sentence, just lets it trail off, but he knows where she's going with it. To her, there's something special and sacred to Christmas movies. "But you're not kicking me out."

She hadn't even turned him away.

"No."

He waits. She's not on her game, he knows that, and he'd learned last night just how much he can get Kensi to ramble if he's quiet long enough. Really, there's a whole stream of questions he wants to ask. Why him? Why now? Why Christmas? He's pretty sure she's got an alternative goal too, something like the damn movies with their warmth and happy families. Happy Christmases.

If that's the case, he has some self-exploration to do. He's never been very resentful of the fact that he doesn't celebrate. He does the team thing, the party, decorating Ops. He gets excited about the right palm tree, about the way people act during the holiday season. He doesn't trim his own tree, put up decorations, listen to carols all month or even do what he and Kensi are quasi-doing now.

"The advent calendar."

She bites the inside of her cheek – when she'd first started at NCIS it had been her lip and her very worst tell – and asks, "What about it?"

She knows what he wants, knows what he's asking. She always does. He'd call it creepy, but he likes it a little too much. He knows that he can be intense and he's always glad when they're in the middle of a case and she knows what he needs from her. So he waits her out. He's more patient than she is.

And she breaks.

"We're not good with Christmas. Sam is, but he's got family. But Eric? Hetty? You and me? We have dark spots, or lonely spots, and Christmas kind of sucks."

She's hit that one on the head.

"Dad used to love it. Jack always made it special and I miss it." She shrugs again, but she can't fool him. There's nothing nonchalant about her words and she is definitely not shrugging off the sentiment behind them. This means something to her, the calendar, doing the calendar with him, all of it. He's known Kensi long enough to know when something matters to her.

And he gets it. He'd been right too – he loves that.

She rolls her eyes and he realizes, belatedly, that his smugness must show on his face. "You don't celebrate. I haven't celebrated in years. Sam has his family and Deeks- I'm not ready for that level of celebration."

"I'm a charity case."

She blinks for a moment before his sarcasm sinks in, but then she smiles and reaches out to smack him. He grins too. He has all of his answers and he's even managed to do it without making things awkward. Because he'll never tell her, but he's glad she picked him. He's glad Deeks is too over the top and Sam likes celebrating with his family so much. There's also an extra warmth in his chest, one he's really not looking at too closely for the moment. The same warmth that had flooded him last night when he'd stood in the doorway to her kitchen, each of them holding a warm mug.

Kensi rolls her eyes and leans back into her couch, her attention moving back to the screen. "Watch the movie, Callen. Maybe if I'm feeling really charitable, we'll watch yours next."

He doesn't tell her, but her assumption that he's staying warms his chest. If this is what it means to be Kensi's charity case, he's not sure he minds too much.


	6. December 6, 2012

"Who did you get?"

Kensi blinks over at her partner. They're staring at a suspect's house, just waiting. Surveillance is the irritating unfortunate part of their jobs, not that Kensi would ever admit that out loud. She hates it, it's boring for someone who likes a little more action, and it opens up time for this.

She hasn't been avoiding Deeks. Not really. She's just been busy with other things. Christmas things. Okay, she's been feeling a little guilty, but not much. As much as she loved Christmas as a child and as much as she is looking to rekindle her own Christmas spirit, Deeks' over the top adoration of the holiday can be exhausting. She wants to find her Christmas spirit, not be beat over the head with it.

It's helps that she has literally no idea what he's talking about.

"The little slip of paper. Behind door number six."

She's still drawing a blank until he withdraws a little green piece of paper. It's thin and folded in half and she's kind of impressed he was able to find it in his pocket with all the crap he generally has stuffed in there.

She'd been in a bit of a rush. So much so, she'd almost forgot about today's door. Honestly, she's a little worse for wear this morning. She's not as focused as she usually is. She blames Callen. They'd watched  _How the Grinch Stole Christmas_  then  _It's a Wonderful Life_  and somewhere in the middle of the second she'd passed out. Literally dead to the world. She'd woken up when the credits had rolled to find herself cuddled into Callen's shoulder.

. . . . .

_She sits up quickly, embarrassed and blushing to her hairline. In fact, she's pretty sure her even her hairline's blushing. Callen doesn't seem fazed._

_She's a cuddler. Always has been. Jack, her dad when she was a kid, hell, that one time she and her best friend had ended up spooned together at a sleepover. She's just that type of a person. She's pretty sure a psychologist would tell her it has something to do with affection, but it's not like she was starved for it as a child. Or maybe it's because she wasn't. She can't keep the theories straight._

_Callen stretches, looking over at her. "I watched that one as a kid. Once."_

_He says it so nonchalantly she almost shrugs it off. She thinks about it, but then busies herself ejecting his USB drive and shutting down her computer. Callen will talk when he's ready. And if he's not, well, she's trying to be good about not pushing Christmas. It's not the kind of thing she can shove on him._

_He takes it from her and she tries not to think about the way his fingers brush against hers. Because it's Callen, and she doesn't get tingles from Callen just because they're exchanging a USB key. Then she makes the mistake of looking up and he's there, his eyes that intense blue that makes her shiver._

" _One of the good ones."_

_She wonders if it's permission and opens her mouth to ask, but he's already moving. She bites her lip for a moment while his back is turned – she knows it's her biggest tell and she has to consciously try and avoid it when someone's looking at her – before she says, "How many good ones did you have?"_

_It's a bold question, and she expects to be rebuffed. Instead, his eyes flick away in a gesture so uncharacteristic, it sends her blood pounding. "Not enough."_

. . . . .

He'd left before she could say anything else, not that she blames him. She knows how hard it is to talk about those dark shadows and really, she thinks that a bunch of bad foster homes ended up churning out a rather remarkable man, considering. Not that she's even really reflecting on that.

God, maybe the advent calendar hadn't been a good idea. They're six days in and she cannot stop thinking about it. About him. About everything they're doing and not doing. She can't get him out of her head and she's feeling more than a little ridiculous about it.

"Kens?"

She starts back to Deeks, who's eyeing her like she's insane. "Uh, I haven't looked."

He arches an eyebrow, waiting. He's not patient and his knee bounces as she fumbles her own green slip from where she'd managed to wedge it in her pocket.

She opens it and blinks. "Nell."

"Trade you!"

She jumps. It's getting ridiculous and it makes absolutely no sense. Deeks can't actually read her mind, so it's not like he has any idea what's going on in hers. "No! Why?"

"Please?"

"No," she says again. She knows better than to agree blindly to anything Deeks wants.

He whines. Actually, really whines. It makes her grit her teeth. He's been worse than a sugar-hyped child now that the holiday season has started in earnest. She's wanted to kill him nine days out of ten. Or six out of the last six. She thinks about punching him. Hard.

"Oh my God, Deeks, seriously. It's Christmas. And you are a grown man – mostly."

He grins unrepentantly because he knows exactly how to push all of her buttons and even she can feel that she's seconds from caving. If only to shut him up.

"Who did you get?" Her voice is hard. Solid. The voice she uses when he's being particularly irritating. She goes as far as to emphasize each individual word.

"Callen."

Her stomach jumps and she curses herself for it. It is a terrible idea to let Deeks buy for Callen it what is obviously a Secret Santa arrangement, but she feels like it would be stupid for her to do it too. They're already doing so much, why would she add Secret Santa on top? And there's something else niggling at her that makes her reluctant.

But also makes her bold.

She snatches the paper from Deeks' hand, ignoring his triumphant crowing and letting him believe he'd worn her down. He plucks Nell's name when she holds it out in her palm.

Her stomach flips as she tucks Callen's name into her pocket.


	7. December 7, 2012

" _Did you see me? Did you see me, Daddy?"_

_Donald Blye laughs as Kensi throws herself into his arms. She's dressed in white, a pipe cleaner halo stuck through her ponytail. He thinks, rather subjectively, she made the best angel on that stage._

" _I did," he tells her. "You were awesome."_

_Kensi giggles as she wraps her arms tighter around her father, hugging him tight. "Mrs. Tomlinson says I was the best."_

_He's biased. He knows he's biased. This is his little girl, and yeah, he's raised her kind of like a boy, but then there are moments like this, where she's dressed as an angel and looks every inch a happy little girl. Who could track a bear in the woods, but that's just survival skills._

" _The very best," he agrees anyway, knowing that's his role here. He feels guilty sometimes, because a girl like he's so lucky to have should have everything she could want. She should have a nuclear family and the brightest Christmas. Siblings and puppies and parents that are around all the time. She's too mature too, understanding even amidst disappointment when he has to miss something._

" _You made a promise, Daddy," she'd told him once, only a handful of years ago. "You have to keep your promise."_

_Ever since, he's made it a personal mission to see absolutely everything he can. He makes every moment as special as possible, making sure that running back to him from Nevada was the right decision. He doesn't want her regretting choosing him, even if it breaks his heart that she was in a position to make that choice in the first place._

_He's brought back when Kensi tugs on his ears. "Sorry, sweetheart."_

" _Which one was your favourite?" she asks patiently._

_He pretends to think about it, but his answer is immediate. "O Holy Night."_

_Kensi giggles and he absorbs the sound, clinging to it. "You always say that!"_

" _It's my favourite!" He puts her down then, because she's still his little girl but she's getting older and she's getting heavier. "O holy night, the stars are brightly shining-"_

_His little girl giggles. He's deliberately singing poorly to make her laugh. He does it often and he's glad that it makes her smile. He takes her hand, tugging her along. He nods to a few parents, parents that have watched Kensi on playdates or sleepovers when work gets difficult. Kensi's skipping beside him, her ponytail bobbing away as she hums. She's happy. It makes him happy._

_She turns sparkling brown eyes up to his. "Daddy, can we get ice cream?"_

_He laughs and hoists her onto his shoulders. Kensi squeals and he feels his heart warm. "Of course we can, Baby Girl."_

* * *

The only clue to the next day's 'gift' is the date, a time and coordinates.

It turns out to be an elementary school. Little kids, singing their hearts out. Kensi tries not to think about how Hetty managed to find it, nor how she got tickets for all of them. It's a beautiful concert, even if these aren't the operatic singers of high paying concert halls. She's blown away by it and wondering if there's anything in the world more adorable.

She sits through Deck the Halls, and Joy to the World. She sings softly along with Jingle Bells and The First Noel. She thinks about homicide during Rudolph, Frosty and The Twelve Days of Christmas. She's genuinely enjoying herself.

Right up until a small brunette girl steps forward. She can't be more than ten, Kensi thinks. The minute the first chords of O Holy Night ring out, she knows she's done for. She can't even make it through the first verse before she's pushing by Deeks, slipping around Callen's knees and heading for the back of the auditorium.

She has to walk down the tiny halls to get away from the music. Her heart is breaking in her chest, making it hard to even breathe. She can feel the tears crawling up her throat, can feel her eyes stinging and her nose clogging. Eventually, she slides to the floor beside a display case of childish art and drops her head to her knees.

She tries to just breathe through it. She's an ugly crier and she already knows her face is going to be redder than Rudolph's nose when she has to return to her seat. She can't stop it though. It all hits her hard and fast. Her breath goes ragged and she has to actually close her eyes against it all. Trying to force herself to breathe slowly isn't working.

She's just on the verge of letting go when there's a hand against her back. She breathes in and out again, feeling the wave dull. The hand doesn't move, just rests there, and it surprises her when it becomes easier to breathe. Her heart is still speeding, but for a different reason. She knows whose hand it is. Sam wouldn't risk coming, neither would Eric or Nell. Hetty would have already shared some sort of similar story and Deeks probably would have ignored all of her signs for space and wrapped his arms about her.

When she feels more stable, she raises her head to find Callen watching her. It's comforting to see no sympathy or compassion in his gaze. He's just watching her with clear blue eyes. It centers her, even if she's the type who does appreciate understanding emotions.

"Your dad?" he asks quietly.

She swallows. Having to deal with her father's case, everything with Granger and the sniper, is a blessing and a curse. She sighs. "It was his favourite."

His hand slips over her shoulder blade, down her arm. Her skin tingles and she draws on wellsprings of self-control to stop the shiver that wants to slide down her spine. His hand falls away and they're left sitting side-by-side in a random Los Angeles elementary school.

"I used to be in Christmas pageants," she beings, staring straight ahead. She thinks she can imagine the little coats and backpacks hanging on the hooks across from them. "When I was that young. My dad never missed a single one." She laughs a little. "He used to sing that song until I begged him to stop. We used to go out for ice cream afterwards."

He doesn't apologize or offer the usual condolences. She's pretty sure she doesn't want them from him anyway. It doesn't really matter to her regardless. She finds herself leaning her head back now, staring at the ceiling. They sit in silence and it surprises her how much it helps her get herself under control again. Silence isn't usually her preferred method of dealing with this kind of overwhelming emotion, but sitting here with him, she can feel her heart slowing, her breath calming, the wave passing.

Eventually, when her breathing has calmed entirely and she feels almost entirely human, he pushes himself up and offers a hand. She wonders if she's just imagining the eagerness in the lines on his face. It's like he can't smooth it out, even though the rest of his face holds no emotion. She swallows, but places her hand nervously in his own. He tugs her up and she expects him to let go of her hand the minute she's standing. Instead, he turns and starts walking back to the auditorium.

She doesn't ask as he pulls her back down the hall, nor as they slip into the back. She expects him to lead the way to their seats, but he stays standing at the back and keeps his hand in hers. It's a bold move for either of them, but she appreciates the contact. Still, curiosity gets the better of her.

"Callen," she whispers, but he just turns his head and looks at her and her mouth snaps shut.

He steps closer, tugging her slightly ahead of him so he can lean into her ear. "Let's make good memories, Kens."

Her breath catches, but she doesn't move. She can feel his heat against her back and while it feels weird to her, no one else seems to pay them any mind. It takes her a while to allow herself to get lost in the music and she doesn't even feel Callen's hand come up to her hip, fingers resting gently over her shirt. Her body relaxes into the touch without acknowledgement from the rest of her. It feels good. It feels normal.

And when she's tucked up in bed a few hours later she thinks that despite her borderline tears and moments of embarrassment, it's a good memory for her.

She just hopes it's a good memory for Callen too.


	8. December 8, 2012

_Kensi's six when she gets her first candy cane._

_Her parents are not generally fans and Kensi can't say she's ever really cared for or about them herself. Of course, she's young, and really, since it's not part of her regular diet, she doesn't feel like she's missing out on anything._

_Until Mason Silas._

_She's sitting at her desk, colouring a picture of Santa when he steps up beside her. She looks up from her careful picture – she_ will _stay inside all the lines this time – and blinks at him._

_He thrusts a candy cane at her._

" _Merry Christmas."_

_Her cheeks heat even as a smile blossoms over her face. She likes Mason well enough. He's funny and he's fast. She hates when he's It in tag because he always chases after her and catches her when no one else can. But she loves it too, because there's only one person in all of first grade that can run as fast as she can. And he likes building forts and playing with cars and he doesn't tell her she should be playing in a plastic kitchen or with the dolls._

_She goes home that night and puts the candy cane on her bedside table. The next morning, it makes her smile and she skips downstairs, harassing her mother until she agrees to make a special stop. She tucks her candy cane in her backpack before the leave and combs through boxes and boxes until she's irrationally satisfied with the one she's chosen._

_She finds Mason at lunch, both candy canes clutched in her fist. He smiles at her and she smiles back as she plops down, uncaring of the dirt she's definitely getting on her pants. She's never cared about that kind of thing._

_Then she holds out one of the candy canes. "We can eat them together."_

_They spend the whole of lunch recess eating their candy canes in silence._

_Years later, when Kensi's asked as a teenager who her first crush was, she always says Mason, the first boy to give her a candy cane._

* * *

Kensi hadn't understood when she'd opened the door for December 8th and found nothing inside. That didn't seem to fit with the advent theme. It's not that she's looking for a gift, but she doesn't like the idea of not having a plan. So much so that she's almost panicking as she heads into work.

What is she supposed to do with Callen when there's nothing behind door number eight?

The question makes her heart drop and she's glad she's stopped at a red light when it happens. Sure, she's not blind to the things that are shifting, and she knows she's had some interesting reactions to Callen since they started the advent calendar, but there's no way in hell that the overwhelmed feeling that has her heart pounding can be attributed to the dread of having nothing to do with him. Or really, no excuse to do something with him.

She's back to that weird place of a couple of days ago, where she'd been scolding herself for letting Callen take over too much of her thought processes. It's not healthy, she thinks, because he's Callen and they're colleagues and there's no logical reason for a colleague to be upset because they don't have an excuse to spend time with another colleague.

She's a little cranky when she steps into OSP, but it fades at the sight of the candy cane box on her desk.

"What's this?" she asks her teammates in greeting. She only allows her gaze to settle on Callen briefly before focusing on Deeks.

"Candy canes. Duh."

She rolls her eyes. "What are we supposed to do with them?"

"Do with them? Kens, are you telling me you've never had a candy cane?" Deeks needles. Sam chuckles, but sobers quickly when she sends him a glare. She's used to it from Deeks, but she will not tolerate it from anyone else.

"I've had candy canes," she argues back, "but all of the other days have been about sharing the holiday. So how are we supposed to share a box of candy canes?"

"However you would like, Miss Blye," Hetty says and they all jump.

Kensi's eyes flutter closed. She wonders if they're supposed to be used to Hetty's ninja skills by now.

"You may eat them all yourself, or you may share them with others. It is entirely up to you." She offers them a nod. "In the meantime, I do believe you all owe me some paperwork."

Deeks shrinks back and Sam sighs, but Kensi grins as she looks down at her box of candy canes, her mind darting to a December day too many years ago and a special candy cane shared with a little boy.

. . . . .

She makes a game out of it.

It's one of the major things she took away from her time with Jack. The best way to enjoy something that may seem otherwise tedious is to turn it into a game or a challenge. It's worked for her every day since and this one is no exception. Really, she's just bastardizing her charity donation tradition, but though the premise is the same, she feels like this concept is different.

These are people she cares about.

They're people who work with her.

It's an entirely new challenge.

Well, maybe not all of it. Deeks is simple because he is astoundingly easy to distract when he's not in character. Eric gets so wrapped up in his technical jargon that managing to leave a candy cane on his desk is easy as well. She gets a break with Nell when she walks in on some intense flirting between her and Eric. She giggles to herself all the way back to her desk after that one. She manages to slip one into Sam's gym bag and catches him eating it later that afternoon. It makes her smile, even as she tries to hide it. She doesn't want anyone knowing it's her.

She leaves a few in random places around the hacienda for people to find. She likes the idea of a random surprise at this time of year, especially when it's one that's positive and simple. When she's finished that, she's left with two. She briefly considers just dropping one on Hetty's desk – because really, she could try as hard as she wants and she's pretty sure Hetty would still know it's from her – but decides it'll give the rest of the game away if she does. Eventually, she just slides it into one of her folders before she hands in her report. At the very least, it'll make Hetty smile.

Then she's left with one.

She knows exactly where this one is going, but this one is also different. Or, maybe it's not, but she's going to make it different. This isn't just a candy cane traded among friends, this is sharing another tradition, bringing forth another warm memory from her past into her present.

She takes her time with this one, let's the universe work out the perfect time. There's a lull in the early afternoon and she slips a piece of paper onto Callen's desk. She's not there when he reads it, but it's gone when she returns so she climbs the stairs up to a seldom-used tower in NCIS' OSP. He's not there, but she pulls a candy cane from her pocket anyway.

She's just thinking about unwrapping it and eating it alone when the hairs on the back of her neck start to tingle. She loves and hates that her radar is tuning itself to his presence. It's a thrill and a terrifying thought. She turns her head to meet his gaze and finds herself surprised to see the candy cane he's holding.

"I figured you out early," he says with a smile.

"Did not," she counters, just for the sake of bickering.

"I donated money with you. It had your name all over it."

She's not offended, so she offers him a smile and a shrug. "I don't need all that sugar. I figured I'd share it."

"You've held one back." He waves to the cane in her hand with the one in his.

She turns back to the cellophane-wrapped candy, spinning it in her fingers. "I got my first candy cane when I was six," she reveals. "Mason Silas gave it to me in class one day."

"Another casualty of your sparkling personality."

She sticks her tongue out at him as he comes closer, but can see something sincere in his eyes. Her stomach jumps and her heart jolts, so she looks away. "We ate them at lunch the next day. I made Mom go out and buy one for him."

He takes a seat beside her on the windowsill and waits her out. She doesn't take long because she's done scarier things than offer G Callen a candy cane. After a minute she does indeed hold the candy out for him to take. He does so with gentle, almost reverent fingers, and she valiantly ignores the heat that sizzles across her skin when their fingers brush. She drops her hand to her lap as he stares at the gift she's presented him with. It's not much, but there's that something that she can't identify back in his eyes again.

She looks away, back to LA and the lights the city casts over everything. A moment later, he all but shoves a candy cane under her nose. Now it's her fingers that tremble as she accepts the candy, unable to hide her shock and awe. She feels like that six year old girl again presented with a gift much more precious than gold or diamonds.

"I got my first candy cane when I was much older than six," he says quietly.

Kensi knows her stomach is in knots and she knows she cannot look up. They're having another one of those moments where things are happening and she's not entirely sure what to do about it or how to handle it. So she does the most obvious thing. She shifts closer on the windowsill and tugs the plastic off the straight end of her treat.

Callen does the same and they sit there, looking out over the glittering lights of LA, each eating a candy cane that's so much more than simply a gift.


	9. December 9, 2012

The little person behind Door Nine is the most unambiguous hint Hetty's dropped so far. But instead of taking the easy route and purchasing gingerbread like Deeks, she lets her mind percolate, trying to come up with a different idea.

It doesn't come to her until she's halfway home.

She changes direction, heading to the grocery store to pick up the necessary items. Then she's back in the car heading away from her own apartment. She stops in front of Callen's house and finds herself taking a deep breath. She feels like after the candy canes yesterday, it might be too presumptuous to be stopping by his house for the next tradition. It's not like she didn't have other options that were OSP friendly.

But she chose this.

She wants this.

She sucks in a deep breath as she kills the engine. It's not really the first time she's been by Callen's house, but no one really ever has a reason. He's kept this place separate from his work and while she admires it, she has to admit, even if it's just to herself, that there's nothing work-related about this particular trip. She figures, then, that she's still keeping within his desire to keep work out of his home.

She sits in his driveway for longer than she'd like to admit, second guessing her decision and her plan. She can't help but think that this is more intimate than their other days, that this goes beyond sharing traditions and having a laugh. This is new to her, something she's never done before and she thinks that maybe there's a bit more significance in this than their should be, that this is more than starting a tradition with a friend.

Her phone rings from her pocket and she jumps. She's not expecting a call and she's more than a little shocked when Callen's name comes up on her display.

"Are you in my driveway?"

She's suddenly very glad that he didn't come out to check. She can feel the heat infusing her skin as she scrambles for something to say. "Yes," she finally manages to squeak out.

She thinks she hears a breath of relief float down the line. Stupid, she realizes. Callen is ever vigilant and has an extremely long list of people that would like to see him dead. Sitting, unmoving, in his driveway is a stupid idea for some one who knows this.

"Why?"

Now there's the million dollar question. There are more than a handful of appropriate answers and she finds her brain short circuiting. There are cliched answers, sassy answers, bland answers, but eventually, her mouth kicks in before her brain. "Gingerbread."

"What?"

She's speaking like an idiot and she forces herself to take a breath. "I brought gingerbread."

"You can't bake," he says sounding more than a little suspicious.

"I can," she answers indignantly.

"Liar," but amusement is back in his voice and it drains some of the tension from her frame. "Deeks told us about your so-called snickerdoodles."

She makes a mental note to maim Deeks the next time they square off against each other. "I bought it," she says. "A house."

"A gingerbread house."

"I've never done one," she blurts.

There's silence on the other end of the phone and she hates it. She's already nervous and on edge, she doesn't need to add questionable silence to the mix. There's no subtext to the silence, nothing but the way her nerves are jangling. This is way more important to her than it probably should be.

"Kens?"

Oh. Oh! She's unbuckling her seatbelt and reaching over to the passenger's seat as everything clicks. She hangs up without a goodbye and he's standing in his open door as she makes her way up the walk.

"Hi'" she greets nervously.

He offers her a little smile and steps back.

. . . . .

They end up in the spartan living room. It has the most space to work around the surprising number of pieces they'd found in the box. It also takes them hours. Neither of them know what they're doing. She knows her lack of knowledge is a surprise to him. He's under the impression that she's done everything, experienced every tradition or activity related to Christmas. Or he was.

"That can't go there," he says, voice exasperated. "It doesn't fit with the other pieces."

"It's the only big piece we have left," she retorts, looking at their rather lopsided excuse for a house. "I told you this big one was a roof piece."

He lets out a frustrated noise. "Whose idea was this?"

She glares for a moment genuinely pissed off, but then she actually looks at him. He has icing smudged on his cheek and down the right side of his nose. His hands are a mess and she knows she doesn't look much better. So, instead of snapping at him, she bursts into laughter. He eyes her like she's lost the plot until she manages to calm herself down.

"This is ridiculous," she says when she catches her breath. "We're arguing over a gingerbread house."

He huffs again, but there's a reluctant smile tugging up at the corners of his mouth. "They need instructions in these things."

She releases a snort of amusement. "G, there's six pieces. Kids can do this."

He shoots her an irritated look and she rolls her eyes. Yeah, she gets it. If kids can do it, then why can't two highly trained federal agents. They should have been able to tell the roof from the side pieces on sight, rather than bickering over it like they are.

"It is a memory," she points out, voice suddenly soft. She's looking down at the pieces when she says it. She can hear an embarrassing amount of vulnerability in her tone and she has to swallow down the disgust she feels at herself. She's not a teenaged girl, for goodness sake, and Callen isn't the most popular jock on the football team. This means a lot to her, of course, but she definitely doesn't mean to make it bigger than it is.

No matter her own wishes.

"That you screwed up your very first gingerbread house?"

She wants to be offended because, well, ouch, but he's glossed over her embarrassment and slid straight to the comfort of teasing. She gives him the indignant response she knows he's looking for. "We screwed up our first gingerbread house."

"I told you they were the roof pieces."

"I told you!" she replies with an indignant laugh. She tries to tug at the gingerbread, but the cement-like icing refuses to budge. She is a little upset that they didn't build the perfect gingerbread house. She'd hoped it would be a happy memory. A good one. One that they could both carry forward and remember fondly. Instead, they have a ruined, half built house that she's not sure she wants to even attempt to finish.

She stays for another half hour as they eat all of the candies they should have used to decorate. She can't say she doesn't enjoy herself, but she can't rightly say she isn't disappointed either. She's not sure this has put either of them on the road to enjoying Christmas again.

But as he stands in the doorway to the living room, watching her slip on her boots, he says, "I had fun."

Her heart lifts - and maybe later she'll reflect on just how much his enjoyment matters to her - and she offers him a smile that's probably a little too blinding considering the simplicity of his statement.

"Good."

Maybe her Happy Christmas plan hasn't been so derailed after all.


	10. December 10, 2012

_Kensi wakes on a grey snowy day, cuddled warm and tight against Jack. There's frost on the window and snow is falling lightly outside Christmas in Montana. Again._

_Much to her surprise, she doesn't hate it. Jack's family is warm and openly loving. They've accepted her from the first day and she feels like this place could be a much colder home. She even likes the snow. Kind of._

" _Morning," Jack's voice growls from behind her._

" _It's snowing," she replies, laughing as he scratches his stubble against the sensitive skin of her neck._

" _Its it really?" He sounds like a child and it makes her grin. He leans up on an elbow and Kensi groans as the chill slips beneath the covers. He tugs her closer when he collapses back down again. "Kensi, it's snowing."_

_She smiles, because she can't help it. He's so excited._

" _Let's go for a walk."_

" _What?" Kensi asks incredulously. "Jack, it's snowing. I'm a California girl. There is no way I'm going out while it's snowing."_

" _Have you ever been for a walk in the snow?" he asks her, shifting her thigh over his._

_She snuggles in tight. "Of course not," she retorts. "It's too cold for a California girl."_

" _Kens," Jack almost whines. "You've got the warmest winter coat. We'll pile on layers, take hot chocolate in a thermos-"_

_She groans and buries her head in his shoulder. "No."_

_Yet two hours and a healthy brunch later, Kensi's wrapped in almost a million layers – Jack's words, not hers – and he's dragged her out into the snow._

" _This is ridiculous," she says as she grips his hand. He helps her over a snow bank._

" _It is not," he replies. It's been a constant argument since they took their first steps away from his parents' cozy ranch house. "Montana looks gorgeous covered in snow."_

_Kensi rolls her eyes, but her inside's warm. Jack's been in the military for a while now, been on short tours and his way of seeing the beauty and the good things continues to surprise her. It's also exactly what she needs. After everything she's been through, his continued optimism helps her stay out of dark places._

_At the top of the bank, he tugs her close, pressing his mouth to hers briefly. "Trust me," he murmurs against her lips._

_She sighs and he grins, because he knows he has her. He grips her hand and continues to pull her down the other side._

" _Where are we even going?" she asks._

" _There's a hill just a little ways from here and there's a farmhouse at the bottom. When it snows like this, it looks like a painting."_

_She's never had an appreciation for art, but he has that boyish excitement on his face that she has the hardest time saying 'no' to. So she continues to let him tug her along. She tries to ignore the cold seeping into her bones. She really, really tries. But twenty minutes of snow hiking later and she gets impatient._

" _How much further?"_

_Jack grins back at her. "Up here."_

_She grips his hand as she climbs the last little bit and as she looks down the other side, even her breath catches. "Jack."_

" _I know," he whispers, as if the peace of the picture would be shattered if he spoke louder. He steps up behind her, wrapping his arms about her waist, moving his chin to rest on her shoulder. The scene in front of them is idyllic. Snow falls softly into a natural, if shallow ravine. The house is small, a traditional farmhouse as opposed to the giant ranch Jack calls home. Smoke floats from the chimney as lights shine brightly in the windows._

" _Do you like it?"_

" _Yes," she breathes out. She loves it, it's like a dream out of her childhood – though she's still not entirely sold on the snow. She finds her eyes tearing up, feels her emotions breaking. This will never be hers. She's got Jack, for as long as he'll have her, but there's so much baggage in her life, attached to so much of her…_

" _The Capshaws have lived there for sixty years," he says softly. "They raised five kids and like fifteen grandkids there."_

" _Wow."_

_She feels him swallow, his arms tightening around her. "I want that."_

_Kensi stays silent. She doesn't know what to say, doesn't know what to do with that. She's not meant to raise kids or grandkids. God, she'd make a terrible mother, and with Jack in the military, having to go on tours, leaving her alone for months at a time, she really doesn't believe that's in the cards for her. Or them, as long as they're together._

" _Kens?"_

" _Hmm?"_

" _I want that. With you."_

" _Jack," she begins, turning in his arms, but Jack's tugging off one of his thick mitts. In his palm is a ring. "Oh my God."_

" _I know you don't think we can do this," he says, "I know permanence is hard for you to believe in, but I think you're wrong. We've been doing this for three years, Kens. You and me. Us. And it works."_

_His hand must be freezing but he takes hers anyway, tugging her mitten off. Kensi's not entirely sure she's breathing anymore._

" _I love you," he says. "And I don't care about what happened with your parents. I don't think you're broken. I think you're perfect." He slides the ring onto her finger. "So let's do it. Let's go for sixty years. Marry me."_

_Her heart is in her throat as she looks down at the small, simple diamond. "Jack."_

" _Say yes, Kens. Just say yes."_

_She can't deny that she yearns for it. It's a dream starting her in the face. So she look back at him, nerves painted all over her face. She's so worried, so nervous, but even her calloused, scarred heart can't deny that he's looking at her like nothing matters more than her and her answer._

" _Yes."_

. . . . .

Callen's spent the better part of his day watching Kensi.

He doesn't watch her as a daily activity. For one thing, Kensi's a damn federal agent. She spots tails, people watching her, and while he's good, he's perfectly sure she'd meet his eyes at least once, realize he was watching and call him out on it. But she never once turns to meet his eyes over the course of their day. In fact, she'd faded in and out all day long.

That worried him, more than anything else. Kensi's not the type to fade in and out of her life. She's alert, focused, even on off days. She's been playing with something in her pocket. He's curious, of course, but Kensi's private and he knows better. At the same time, his level of worry is new, unique. It's been way too long since he worried like this. He's not even entirely sure he's ever worried like this. And it's been terribly difficult to keep all of that from exploding. Which in and of itself doesn't make sense to him.

None of this makes sense.

Regardless, when she disappears, Callen notices, almost immediately. And he worries. Eventually, Sam and Deeks get wrapped up in whatever they're arguing over now – he thinks maybe it has something to do with gifts and families, but it might be fish – and he slips away. When he finds himself in one of the hacienda's empty corridors, he pauses to think. He knows Kensi, knows her even better now, so he goes with his gut.

She's sitting on a windowsill, away from the hustle and bustle of OSP headquarters. She looks shockingly small and lonely against the broad open window and the sun setting beyond. It makes him pause, like the bloody romantic he most certainly is not. They all feel lonely sometimes. It's the curse of the work they do. This is more. There's sadness in her posture, in the bow of her head and the slump of her shoulders.

"Wanna talk about it?"

She doesn't turn, but he sees her chest rise and fall in a heavy sigh. "Ever think we're missing out on something beautiful, living in LA?"

"There's sun, sand, beach bodies. What's missing?" he asks, stepping closer. He can see the brief upturn of her lips before she shrugs.

"Snow."

"Snow? You miss cold, wet snow?"

He's only poking at her and the way her mouth twitches again, he knows she sees it that way.

"What's so good about snow?"

She holds up what he realizes is her calendar gift. He'd received cheeky instructions on how to create his own snowflake – at least it wasn't the fake snow Deeks had been complaining about all morning – but Kensi held two earrings.

"I don't even wear jewelry," she says softly.

"On duty."

It doesn't get him the eye roll he'd been aiming for. Instead, he gets a very shaky smile. She flicks one and they both watch it shine and shimmer in the early evening light. Despite the fact that he's absolutely chomping at the bit to push and ask about this weird mood she's in – and blatantly ignoring just how much he wants to push and ask when he's never done so before – he bites his tongue. She'll get there. She's shown him that. He just has to be patient.

Sure enough, a few minutes later, Kensi drops a bomb on him. "Jack proposed in the snow."

He hadn't even realized Kensi'd had any exposure to real snow. He'd always just assumed she was a born, bred, raised California girl. So never in a million years would he have though she'd relate snow to such a serious milestone. Hell, he'd forgotten she'd been engaged.

"I hated the snow, hated the cold, but in two minutes, Jack made it all special. More."

Callen swallows. While he's infinitely glad he's finally gotten to the root of the melancholy, he now isn't sure what to do with her confession. He closes the final distance between them on instinct alone, stepping in until his chest rests against her shoulder. Her head tilts to look at him, her eyes tumultuous, like she expects him to be able to fix the melancholy. But he has no idea how.

His hand reaches out, fingers trailing down her arm until he can take her hand. Her fingers thread easily through his as a shiver drills down her spine. It's simple contact, but he can feel the layers in it, emotions rising to the surface. Then Kensi leans her head against his chest and his world shifts. It's intimate, terrifyingly so, and he feels head sweep through him, almost startling him away from her. Instead, he tests himself, holding his ground, taking on the role of support and company while she struggles with a bittersweet memory.

"Sorry we can't make a new snow memory," he finally says, his free hand moving to trace light random patterns against the back of her shoulder.

She offers him a smile, one that is more genuine but still tugs at his heart in ways it probably shouldn't. He finds himself promising, mentally and irrationally, to change that. To find some way to make it up to her. To find a new memory.

And next year, next year he'd fix this one too.


	11. December 11, 2012

" _It's a new day, Baby Girl."_

_She's thirteen and cool, so of course her father's soft voice in her ear, reminding her she has a present to open does nothing. The feeling coursing through her is irritation, not anticipation. She groans and whines, "Dad."_

_It doesn't matter. Donald Blye pulls his daughter from her warm sheets and to the back door of the tiny house they share. On it, hangs the same advent calendar she's had since she was a child, all bright colours and massive numbers. It's more appropriate for a four-year-old than a fourteen year old, but her father, as he's done every year, has filled it up with little gifts._

" _Come on, Kens. December."_

" _Dad, I'm fourteen!" she whines like the teenager she is. "This is for kids."_

" _And you're my kid. So you get the calendar."_

_Kensi huffs, crossing her arms over her chest. It has nothing to do with the way her fingers are twitching, she tells herself. She's ticked off because her dad's woken her too early for a cool fourteen-year-old. The irritation – not anticipation, that's ridiculous for a cool fourteen-year-old – is chewing at her stomach. "I just want to sleep."_

_She's wide awake, but her dad doesn't need to know that._

" _You can go back to sleep right after you open today's present," he promises._

_She rolls her eyes, but reaches into the little pouch marked with a bold, red two. She knows what it is before she opens it. "Crème Egg," she says, weighing the little thing in her palm._

_She's always gotten one of the Cadbury ornaments in the calendar, from as far back as she can remember. They're so much a part of her December tradition that she moves to their little kitchen table to take the untidy wrapping off. She removes the tinfoil wrapping next, revealing the chocolate underneath._

_Her father slips a plate under the egg and sets two glasses on the table. "Go ahead, Baby Girl."_

_Now, she grins, dropping the egg to the plate with enough velocity to make it crack. The insides leak out over the plate as her father returns with milk. He reaches out, dips a finger into the sugary middle, and sucks it into his mouth. Kensi grins, as she watches him. She follows suit, well used to this routine. Then they're laughing and giggling, the chocolate outside set aside while they battle over who gets the most of the inside._

" _Not a bad reason to get up with your old dad, huh?"_

_And Kensi smiles because really, she's never too cool to eat chocolate with her dad at Christmas. She leans over, placing a sugary kiss on his cheeks. "I guess not."_

_He wraps his arm around her, using the other hand to hold out half of the chocolate shell. She takes it and bites into it with relish, glad her dad doesn't think she's too cool for advent calendars._

. . . . .

He knows exactly who knocks on his door long after he's returned home. She, on the other hand, had been caught up on a surveillance thing and hadn't even been in the office when he'd gotten off shift. And he'd wanted it that way. Yet, at the same time he'd most definitely expected this. Curiosity is a weakness of hers.

Sure enough, Kensi's on the other side of his front door, holding a bright object in her palm.

"What is this?"

"An egg," he responds. "Looks chocolate."

She rolls her eyes. "Callen."

"Kensi."

"You left a chocolate egg on my desk."

He raises an eyebrow and asks, "Why me?"

She glares because it's a carefully crafted response that doesn't give anything away. But he can tell she's sure it was him. She's sure he's the reason she's currently holding a Crème Egg. Eventually though, she looks away, a split second of vulnerability that freaks him out. He swallows thickly because he recognizes that this means something. He hadn't meant it like that –

Okay, that's a lie. It meant something. It was supposed to mean something, the same way the candy cane, the gingerbread, the hot chocolate, even the Christmas movies meant something. The same way their whole agreement means something. The egg had been a very deliberate choice. A terrifyingly deliberate choice. A choice where he knew exactly what he was doing and exactly why he was doing it.

"Because I told you about it," she finally says. "You're the only one who knows about the egg. About me and my dad."

He steps back, letting her in. She pauses, which surprises him, but then follows him inside. When she's standing in the middle of what should be his living room – he still really hasn't invested in furniture – she weaves her fingers together. It's a nervous gesture and for this first time, it makes him nervous in response.

Had he overstepped?

"We need a plate," she blurts.

"A plate."

She swallows visibly, like this is more of a struggle than even he can see. "And a table, but."

She glances around and he gets the point. It only takes him a moment and she's sitting cross-legged on the floor. In her palm, she holds the egg. He watches her for a moment, his gaze fixed on her as she focuses on the egg. She catches him staring when she looks up and offers him a shaky smile.

"You don't have to do this," he says, before he can think about it. She looks so uncomfortable and so shaken and he feels like he's forcing her into something. That hadn't been the intention of his gift. At all.

She doesn't reply. Instead, she goes about what seems to be a routine. She unwraps the egg carefully, taking all the foil in one go. She holds the ends between her thumb and forefinger and drops the egg. It lands on the plate with a splat, the inside oozing out between the chocolate shell. She puts aside the shell and focuses on the sugar-filled insides.

They eat in silence, mostly because he's not really the talky type, and even if he was, he wouldn't know what to say. This is another day on a growing list of Significant Moment days and, much like all the others, he's not entirely sure what this means. What he does know is that he wanted to do something nice for Kensi because of everything she's been doing for him. And he knows that the need to do something good, to change a memory for her is, in part, about the guilt from not being able to fix a different memory.

She offers him a half of the chocolate shell and he bites into it, despite not being the biggest chocolate fan himself. They've cleared that up by the next time one of them speaks.

"It hurts less," she says, startling him so bad his head whips up. She doesn't meet his eyes. Hers stay focused on the last vestiges of egg as she goes on, "Sharing this with you."

Callen can't breathe. After his wish to make snow an easier memory, to soften one that centers around Donald Blye's time with his daughter rocks him. He hadn't done anything. She didn't have to share with him. In fact, he hadn't expected her to. And now she'd just dropped a hell of a bombshell on him.

"Why?" he blurts, shocked and confused.

Kensi just shrugs.


	12. December 12, 2012

Skating, she thinks, is a little bit like undercover work. It’s an odd thought for a woman who claims she’s an LA girl through and through, but the few times she’s strapped blades to her feet and stepped onto the ice, she’s felt free. She can be who she wants to be. The only difference is, there’s rarely a gun-wielding terrorist on the ice.

She goes through the day on a weird cloud. She knows the skates aren’t a calendar gift, and she knows that they have nothing to do with the gift she pulled from behind the little door. It’s what makes the mystery all the more intriguing. And simultaneously frustrating. Even Sam doesn’t seem to know what’s going on.

She has her suspicions, of course. Callen’s been conspicuously absent all day when she’s had more than thirty seconds to herself. She knows it’s not Sam and Deeks cannot keep a secret when it comes to her. They’re definitely not from Eric or Nell, either. Her keen agent skills are telling here there’s only one option, but said option won’t let himself be caught.

It’s creeping on evening when he finally shows his face in the bullpen.

“Ready?”

She looks up from a half finished incident report and he’s standing in front of her desk. Over his shoulder is an old, battered pair of skates. There are so many things on the tip of her tongue. She wants to scold him. She wants to harass him. She wants to ask him, ‘what the hell’? Instead of any of that, she feels a thrill through her chest and smiles. Her pen hits the folder. She’ll have to come in early to finish it for Hetty, but her motivation for sticking around is now standing in front of her.

She reaches beneath her desk for the skates he’d left earlier. She smiles. She can feel the shy nature of the twist of her lips. He lets her walk out first, then surprises her when they’re out of camera sight by slipping his hand in hers. It’s only a second, enough for a quick squeeze, but it’s enough. Her head is spinning with scenarios, concerns, _everything._

“Just get in the car, Kens.”

Inside, Nell steps back into Ops with a tiny, secretive smile playing about her lips. She’d known something was different. Now she’s witness to the proof. 

“Did you catch him?”

Information. She’d gone out there to give Callen information. But instead of feeling guilty for putting a case off – it’s not _that_ sensitive – she pushes down a gleeful grin. “Nope.”

Eric raises an eyebrow. “He hasn’t been back for hours.”

Nell shrugs. “Maybe he found something better to do.”

Like skating.

 

They stop at a food truck for dinner. Kensi thinks she should be pissed, but it’s Callen, and it’s her, and it feels like a date. The food truck makes it _them_ , takes some of the pressure off.

“Have you skated before?”

Kensi nods around a bite of chili. “Jack. And my dad.”

He nods as if he should have known, and Kensi’s surprised to find that there’s no pang there. She feels her mouth twitch up, if only because thinking of Jack has always brought an echo of pain. She can remember skating with Jack for the first time, laughing at him as she skated and skated and skated.

“I learned in Michigan. Dad was stationed there for a winter just before he was assigned to the black ops unit. You?”

“Foster home,” he says and for a moment she doesn’t think he’ll elaborate. “Longest one. They were Russian, used to being able to skate, but frustrated with… everything. We’d go every week.”

She smiles. She loves it when he speaks fondly of his foster experiences. It’s rare, and she intellectually understands that, but she can’t help that it makes her warm when he talks of good experiences.

They’re silent for a few moments before she asks, “Why skating?”

“Sorry?”

She shrugs, moving the chili around in its cardboard case. “We’re in LA. Skating’s not really something you do, unless your skates have wheels.” She glances up at him for a split second, then down again. She’s nervous. The calming effect of the food truck is wearing off. “Why ice skating.”

“It’s a winter sport.” He says after a moment and she knows he’s studying her. She can’t help it. It’s still weird and surreal to her that they’re even doing these kinds of things together, that he’s sharing so much of his past and huge chunks of his present. She can’t help but question it.

“So is snowboarding.”

“Not a good idea.”

There’s a story there, and she feels her lips twitch despite the fact that it is a very serious conversation. All she wants to do is understand. It’s important that she understand. But she’s not sure how to ask. “Skating though?”

He arches an eyebrow. “Got another idea?”

“Nope,” she says, immediately backpedaling. It sounds as if she should just be grateful. And she is, she really is, but she doesn’t know how to work this into the little box Callen inhabits in her head.

“Come on,” he says, taking her half finished dinner and tossing it in a nearby bin. His goes to, then he turns to her, holding out hand. “We’ll miss public skate.”

She takes it, feeling a shiver at the contact and the way he doesn’t let go until they get to the car. He squeezes her hand again as they separate. They’re in LA, so she’s not surprised when he pulls into the parking lot of an arena. There are plenty of people, families, couples, even friends just there, goofing around. It feels warm, despite the necessary chill, and she can’t stop the genuine smile from stretching across her face.

It’s been doing that a lot when it comes to the things she and Callen are doing together.

They put their skates on side-by-side, sitting in arena seats. Despite the fact that she’s been skating a million times, it takes her a few steps to get used to the height and into the habit of balancing on a thin blade. She feels better when Callen wobbles a little, too.

Still, it only takes them a lap or two to get into the rhythm. The push and glide, cutting across corners, weaving in and out of people. It’s surprisingly easy to keep pace with one another and right about the third lap, when they’ve been jostling shoulders for a couple of minutes, Callen takes her hand again. This time, he holds on and Kensi feels a lump form in her throat. This is new. This is different. This is entirely not what she’s used to.

And it’s the straw that breaks the proverbial camel’s back.

“What are we doing?” she blurts out, unable to take it anymore. She’s going to drive herself nuts if she can’t stop thinking about it. Even so, she has no idea what she’s looking for here. There are so many answers he could give that aren’t good.

There’s a moment, then he shrugs. “Going forward.”

They’re words she hadn’t realized she’d needed to hear. Going forward. The pressure in her chest releases and she feels like she can breathe again. They’re not ‘doing’ anything. They’re just existing, taking advantage of the spirit of the season.

Her eyes clear and her hand tightens in his.

The undercurrent strengthens as they glide around the rink until the officials kick them off. Then it’s back to the hacienda and her car. It’s a content and quiet silence that fills the drive back and she smiles at him as he pulls to a stop.

“Thanks,” she says quietly, then impulsively leans over to kiss his cheek.

As she walks away she pretends she totally missed the shock on Callen’s face. 


	13. December 13, 2012

_Julia hears the scream first, followed almost immediately by her husband's hoarse shout. She's off like a shot, racing around the couches in their living room. On the way, she catches sight of her husband, leaning over the still-small body of her only child._

_By the time she gets the door open, Julia's almost hysterical._

" _Kensi!"_

" _Mommy," she hears her little girl wail. It_ hurts _."_

_Julia drops down beside Donald, reaching out. She wants to run her hands over Kensi, make sure she's okay. Donald stops her, taking her hands gently._

" _I think it's just her arm," he murmurs into her ear. His voice is calm, despite the fact that he's sitting beside his only child that is so obviously hurt. "But we're better off not to move her."_

_Julia feels her breath hitch. The worst races through her head, panic settling in her blood. What happened?" she almost sobs, unable to stop reaching out to brush Kensi's hair off her forehead._

" _She fell, Jules. We need to call an ambulance. I think she hit her head."_

_The panic worsens and she feels Donald squeeze her hand. Hard. The split second of her bones grinding together shocks her into focus. "Ambulance. Right."_

_She stumbles into the house in a weird sort of haze. She's deceptively calm as she dials the emergency number. Yes, she tells the operator, her daughter is breathing fine. She has no idea about shock, but yes, she remembers Kensi being a little pale. The operator asks her a handful of other questions before reassuring her the ambulance is on its way. It's only a small comfort._

" _It's coming," she says as she races back outside. It's a terrible idea. The moment she sees her daughter, she's tearing up again._

_Donald sees it and comes to her side. He's still calm, which Julia cannot understand. Kensi's a total Daddy's Girl and Donald absolutely dotes on her. How can he be so calm when Kensi's hurt?_

" _We need a blanket," he tells her, turning them so she can't see Kensi and he can. It helps, a little, but also makes it a little worse. "She's going into shock. A thick one, Jules, can you do that?"_

_When she returns there's a blond man leaning over Kensi. He's talking to her in low tones, steady and calm as he runs his hands over her as best he can through the thick blanket now draped over her. Donald's hovering nearby, looking every inch a Marine, even in civilian clothes._

" _You're breathing well. I don't hear any problems there," the MT says, smiling at Julia as she passes by. It doesn't help and Julia finds herself picking at a loose thread in Kensi's bedspread._

" _Doesn't look like any back or spine injuries. Did you fall far?"_

_Kensi whimpers, and Julia's protective instincts have her all but leaping for her daughter. Donald holds her back._

" _Let him do his job," he murmurs softly, then looks up at the MT. "Far enough."_

" _Well, the arm's definitely broken. Must have taken the brunt of her fall," the MT says. "And just to be on the safe side, we're going to put you on a backboard in the ambulance."_

" _I'm going with her," Julia says insistently. This time, Donald doesn't argue and she doesn't see him again until Kensi's already been wheeled into x-ray. He's pale as he strides quickly and confidently down the hall and she can see that the panic has sunk in for him now too._

" _Anything?"_

_Julia shakes her head and pulls him in. He's a comfort, even in his own panic. Hers has lessened since Kensi's come in, talked to a doctor. He hadn't seemed worried even though he'd agreed with the MT to check her neck and spine, just in case. "Except she managed to make it out without a concussion."_

" _She just_ fell _," she hears him say into her hair._

" _From where?" Her voice is still shaking. God, this is insane._

" _The ladder. She was climbing the ladder. I was hanging the lights and she was climbing the ladder."_

_His grip is tight on her, but she manages to pull back, just a little. "She was climbing the ladder?"_

" _Climbing after me," he says, eyes blank. "I told her 'no'. We agreed she was still too young to be up there, to help with the outside lights."_

_It's true but Julia finds herself sighing. They should have known better, really. Kensi's always wanted to do whatever her father is doing, even if it's stupidly dangerous for a young child. They'd raised a curious, independent and precocious little girl, and while Julia's usually very proud of the way Kensi's been growing up, but today, it's a parent's worst nightmare._

_She's just glad, two hours later, when they've got a drugged Kensi in the car with a carefully casted arm, that everything's okay._

. . . . .

The only good thing that's come from Donald's death is Julia's renewed relationship with her daughter. Kensi's much different now, of course. She's a federal agent, for one thing. But Julia doesn't care. Her daughter is beautiful, capable, resourceful and independent, and while Julia can't exactly take credit for even half of that, she can't be disappointed either.

It's a random Thursday, so she really doesn't expect Kensi to be home when she pulls up to her daughter's new apartment. They'd found it together, she remembers, a bonding activity after reuniting. She'd been surprised to discover that Kensi had been keeping her eyes on her mother, watching her, paying attention. Julia figures it's part of the 'curse' Kensi will speak of from time to time. 'The curse of the job', her daughter will say, a constant fear that loved ones are in danger.

She knows that feeling.

Either way, she doesn't expect to find her daughter at home. In fact, the basket of Christmas goodies in the passenger's seat comes complete with a note and none of it is really perishable. Julia knows Kensi can be away for days at a time. But, to her pleasant surprise, the lights are on in Kensi's apartment.

So, she knocks, and smiles when she hears laughter on the other side. Kensi's partner, Julia thinks. She'd liked him and the way he'd cared for her daughter. Despite the fact that Kensi can definitely take care of herself, Julia can't help but want that for her daughter.

"Mom!" Kensi greets in surprise. "Hi."

"Surprise," Julia answers, eyeing the tinsel in Kensi's hair with a little bit of trepidation. "Am I interrupting?"

"No," Kensi replies, stepping back to allow her mother through the door.

It's not the LAPD detective Julia finds standing on a short ladder. It's Agent Callen, patiently holding a silver garland to Kensi's wall.

"Agent Callen."

"Ms. Feldman."

"Julia," she insists. The man's in her daughter's home. Having him speak so formally just doesn't feel right.

"Callen."

They exchange a smile that isn't totally comfortable, but it doesn't feel exactly wrong either.

"What did you bring?"

Julia almost jolts at Kensi's voice, but spins to face her not-so-little girl. She never fails to see Donald in Kensi's face. "Just… Christmas."

Kensi's smile is small, but entirely genuine, a beautiful expression of tentative happiness. It's the story of where their relationship is and Julia's not immune to the residual resentment that her daughter holds. But they're trying and Julia knows that's what matters.

"Seemed like the time for it," Julia says, trying to sound like her daughter's approval doesn't matter. It does, of course, maybe more than it should.

"It is. Callen and I were just decorating."

Julia can't say she'd pegged the man for the decorating type, but he seems perfectly content in Kensi's living room, holding that garland. In fact, he clears his throat, reminding Kensi he's still standing there. Kensi jumps to him with a bit of a self-conscious laugh, but doesn't think twice of climbing up the couple of steps, pressing them together in a way that would be intimate if it wasn't for the garland. Julia watches, and despite how welcoming Kensi's been, she feels like a voyeur, watching something new and delicate blossom.

Still, the way they make quick work of the garland with barely a word passing between them is more than impressive.

"Sit, Mom," Kensi says as she steps carefully off the ladder. Julia has a brief flashback as Kensi puts her foot on the ground, but Kensi is much more coordinated grown than she was when she broke her arm at eight.

When she's seated, Julia takes the opportunity to take in the mess that is Kensi's apartment. There are boxes everywhere, most of them new. "Do you not decorate every year?"

"Um," Kensi begins, glancing briefly to Callen. Julia's surprised at the gaze, surprised at everything it holds. "Not usually."

There's a story there. A whole story and one day Julia hopes she's in a place with Kensi where her daughter feels like she can tell it without protective walls.

"Hetty," Kensi begins awkwardly, but Julia waits patiently while Kensi finds the words. Callen's moved to the kitchen with the basket, Julia assumes to unpack it. He's comfortable in Kensi's tiny kitchen and Julia knows there's significance in that too.

"Hetty gave us each an advent calendar," Kensi finally says. "You met her right?"

Julia nods.

"They're just little things," Kensi goes on. "Today was tinsel."

"So you're decorating," Julia finishes, reaching out to tug a silver strand from Kensi's hair.

Her daughter laughs, a little self-consciously and tucks her hair behind her ear. It's a girlish gesture that has Julia's maternal instincts firing. She can't help it. Instead, she clears her throat and takes a chance.

"I expected your partner," she says in a quiet voice.

Her terribly brilliant daughter has the grace to blush as she puts the pieces together. "Mom, no. Deeks… No."

Julia arches a brow.

Kensi actually squirms. "He's my partner. That's all."

Julia glances at the kitchen, but Callen isn't returning. She allows the flicker of gratitude if the man is giving them a moment. "He cares."

"Of course he does," Kensi replies with a gentle smile. "But not like that."

"And Agent Callen?" Julia keeps her voice low.

Kensi glances to the kitchen and Julia sees that tiny smile of genuine joy on her face again. "I don't know. But we're making new memories."

Julia feels a bittersweet tug on her heart. It's bitter because she's afraid that Kensi needs to erase old memories, or replace painful ones. She'd never wanted that for her daughter. Never. Yet, it's sweet too because Julia really likes the idea of Kensi having good memories. Even if they're not with the man she may have expected.

"I'm glad." And while her smile may be shaky because of all of the emotion swirling in her chest, the sentiment is genuine.

Then Callen returns and Julia becomes privy to something she realizes is both intense and intensely private. He brings coffee and some of the cookies from Julia's gift basket and settles into Kensi's couch like he belongs there. He doesn't seem out of place, and Kensi barely blinks at his presence.

Julia had felt, in their brief meeting, like there was no one more intensely private than Agent Callen. She'd figured him for the lone wolf, separate from everyone else despite working in a team environment. She'd felt if it wasn't for Agent Hanna, Agent Callen wouldn't have a partner and probably wouldn't have a team. Agent Callen kept everything so close, so tight, that she'd felt both welcome and an intruder the entire time.

Yet here, he's different. They're both different. It's not overt either, just a feeling, a humming intensity beneath every interaction. They don't touch and they don't speak to each other any differently, but there is definitely something there. It's hovering just beneath their every word or gesture. In fact, it's so subtle that Julia's not even sure where the feeling is coming from. All she knows is that Kensi is softer and Agent Callen feels more open than he had in the boatshed the first time she'd met him.

She spends almost an hour with them and feels her heart swelling with every moment. While Agent Callen may not have been the man Julia would have chosen, she thinks that she's willing to change her mind. She feels like 'creating new memories' is barely scratching the surface of the relationship between Kensi and Agent Callen but she thinks as she kisses her daughter's cheek goodbye, she's willing to wait it out.

Who knows?

Maybe it'll be something fantastic.


	14. December 14, 2012

He's not entirely sure what's going on.

He knows what he's agreed to. He even knows what his implicitly agreed to. What he doesn't know is why on earth he's woken up with his blood pounding in his veins. Well, that's not entirely true either. He knows the dream he's just had and he's disturbed by it as much as he is turned on.

Kensi's his teammate for God's sake.

Of course, he's not blind either. She's beautiful and he's always enjoyed her sass and her spirit. He's kept his distance, of course, because he has a rule about women and guns, but it's hard to keep that rule in place with Kensi. She's a woman with a gun, but a woman who has vulnerable spots. She's a woman that could take him down, but she's fallen asleep on his shoulder twice in the last four months alone and while he shouldn't be thinking about the amount of trust that speaks to between them, nor the way she'd felt cuddled against his sides, it seems his subconscious has other plans.

He drops his head into his hands with a sigh too heavy for what he's considering. It's not a secret that he trusts Kensi. His first thought after he'd given Janvier to the Iranians had been her. He never refused a hug when she offered it. He'd turned to her when they'd been confronted with the possibility of nuclear weapons hidden beneath the major US cities. He knows she can more than handle herself, even if his stomach twists in knots every time they have to send her in first.

Fundamentally though, he  _doesn't_  let himself dream. He can't. He's not the type of man that is going to get a happily ever after and Kensi's much too important to him and the team for him to even think about anything else. They've worked hard to hone their skills, to know with barely a glance what was coming next.

"G? G!"

He startles, cursing himself for getting lost in thought. He's at a damn bar, for Pete's sake, undercover, watching drug dealers as inconspicuously as possible. It's a tough gig, actually, because his mind is an absolute mess.

They've decorated the hacienda before, but he's never seen Kensi with that wistful look on her face, joy and vulnerability in her eyes like last night. It doesn't make sense to him. Neither does the pull he'd felt. He'd wanted to reach for her, pull her close, stroke her cheek and he damns himself for that just a bit. He shouldn't. He never has before. And that's the crux of it, isn't it? He's never wanted Kensi. Sure, he's never allowed himself to think of her that way outside of a mission or a job – and then, he's loathe to admit that he channels  _something_  different when it's them – but he should also be able to shut it down.

Instead, he's thinking of her, of them, of everything, knowing she's just across the bar, aware that he's only half paying attention to his damn job. In fact, he's so aware that he knows the moment she stands up. He can almost feel the eyes that follow her around the bar, that flick to him when she chooses the empty stool beside him. He's been keeping them empty with a remarkably good brooding demeanor that he's proud of. And is probably a little more real than he'd like it to be.

"Wanna talk about it?" she asks in a low, too-sexy murmur. And damn if his traitorous body doesn't respond.

"No." He knows she's not just asking, but  _asking_ , and either way, he doesn't want to. How does he tell her that he had a filthy dream about her? How does he explain his jumping pulse, or the way he can almost feel his body canting towards hers? He doesn't. He keeps his mouth shut. Especially since he can hear Deeks nattering on in his ear. Damn wires.

She bats her eyes at him and she has to have no idea what that does. What it's doing. Sure, it's a role for her, and she's playing it to the hilt, drawing attention like she's supposed to, but it's killing him. He's going to hurt her, he's going to ruin her, and she doesn't deserve that. No one deserves that.

He shakes her off. He's supposed to. He gets to play the asshole today – he plays it well and it suits him perfectly – but it feels like more. She must feel it too because something changes in her eyes. Something shifts and he's not sure if he's glad or not. She leans back. Not a lot, but enough that he knows he's just pushed her away.

Two days after pulling her closer.

It's good for her, he tells himself as he looks at her with blank eyes. It's safer. He's a danger, not just physically, but emotionally. Of course he is. Everyone knows that. Everyone tells him that. Even the ones that encourage him to look for someone.

She's safer, he repeats to himself as she turns away.

She's safer, he reminds himself when she moves to a table.

She's safer. It's a mantra by the time their target takes a seat next to her.

It still takes all his will power not to growl and throttle the man when he leans into Kensi's personal space.

And if he wrenches the man's arm a little too hard a few hours later, it's not his fault, because she's safer without him and he's definitely not taking it out on the jackass that had the audacity to touch her.

She's safer.

He's so screwed.

* * *

Callen's the last one in the bullpen, he thinks as he drops into his chair. He's glad for it. The entire op has left him shaken and despite their successful arrest, feeling woefully inadequate.

He hurt her. He knows it. It doesn't take a genius to see it. He hates it. He knew better, he knows better. He gave her hope and now he's sabotaged the whole thing – whatever that thing is – without even trying. He's a little surprised at hoe much that truly bothers him. He should apologize. He should explain. She's mad at him, or at the very least frustrated with him. She has to be.

Then she walks in. She's no longer in the sexy dress from the bar. She's back in her jeans and t-shirt. She's Kensi and instead of it lessening the way he's reacted to her all day, it magnifies it. He can picture the way her hair would fan out as he yanked that t-shirt over her head and –

"Callen."

She sounds a bit like she hadn't expected him to be there. Stupid really. He holds the current record for most consecutive hours in HQ.

"Hey Kens." It sounds weird on his tongue, like he no longer has the right to use a nickname with what he's done. "Look-"

"Save it," she says quietly. If she'd yelled, he'd probably have pushed. If it had been any one other than Kensi, he would have pushed.

"You- You don't owe me an explanation," she goes on, even as her fingers twist in front of her. "We don't owe each other anything."

But he wants to, he thinks, shocking himself. He wants to explain. He wants to tell her it has nothing to do with her. He's a mess, he'll always be a mess, and he shouldn't have let himself get caught up in the whole thing.

She offers him a shaky smile. "I'll see you tomorrow. Or today. Whatever."

"Kensi."

Her smile drops and the vulnerability slices through him. He's too far gone?  _She_ looks like it matters just as much. And damn it all to hell it was never supposed to be like this. He realizes that's what keeps her rooted to the spot, just enough hope that this is different, that she hadn't made a mistake sharing with him like she had. It's a bonus to him while he pieces together exactly what he wants to say.

"I lied."

And leave it to him to bugger it up. Her eyes flutter shut. It shocks him because it is both a heartbreaking amount of her heart on her sleeve and because it's painfully obvious that this means more than something to her. It's dangerous, because his whole being pulls in response. He wants to just reach out, to have that warm feeling in his chest that he'd had last night when he'd brushed a hand over her hip and kissed her cheek goodbye.

"It's okay," she says quietly, and he hates how steady her voice is. She shouldn't be used to that, shouldn't be used to people backing away. Not Kensi.

So he takes a chance and races out on that damn limb because that's what she's been doing for two straight weeks. Every day. Giving him pieces of herself and he's barely given her crumbs back. At the very least, he owes her this. More importantly he wants to give it to her.

Kensi doesn't give him a chance. She speaks before he can. "I don't know either, you know. What we're doing. What it means. If it's supposed to mean anything."

And leave it to her to hit the nail on the head in one go. She knows him, he realizes, so much better than he'd originally anticipated. It's a thrill and it's terrifying. She battles her own demons, demons that he is well aware he could very easily exacerbate. So of course she knows what he wants to say. More than that, she's doing it anyway, despite the fear.

She slips into her chair and turns it to face him, bracing her elbows on her knees. "What you said, about moving forward."

Oh, he remembers it vividly. Down to the comforting feeling of her hand in his.

"It's no pressure."

Her eyes are intense and he gets the feeling that she knows exactly how he feels. It's an overwhelming rush and shock of confusion. New feelings, but at the same time, exactly as they've always been.

"You don't owe me explanations. I don't owe you explanations. No pressure."

He doesn't like it. He doesn't know why and he doesn't even understand how, but he knows he doesn't like that. If he's being an ass, he wants her to tell him, like she always has. "We can't."

"Of course not," she agrees easily. He thinks he's out of the woods until she shrugs. "Too late."

She says it like it's a fact and it is. It just is. And she's right. It's too late for either of them. They're already moving forward and already they've both shared more with each other than they have with anyone else. It crashes down around him as he stares at her and, much to his shock, instead of weighing him down, he feels… Not lighter, but not as bogged down either. An elastic that's been strung taught and finally let go to relax again.

He feels a smile creep across his face and sees it echoed on hers. They're on the same page now, for sure, aware that they can't go backwards. Their only choice is forward and knowing their on the same page, knowing that she is completely aware that every step is going to be a fight –for both of them – he feels better.

"I'll see you when the sun's up," she says gently, breaking him from his thoughts.

He sees it, just barely, as she heads towards the exit. Green and white and just hanging there.

He doesn't think.

"Kensi."

She stops, right under it, looking at him curiously. That look turns wary as he strides over to her, determination in his eyes. He threads a hand through her hair and presses his mouth to hers. She's startled, naturally, but her body responds, going cold then spiking hot as his other hand moves around to spread across her back. One of her arms wraps around his neck, the other hand reaching up to grip his forearm. She can feel the muscles coiled beneath her fingers and a breathless moan escapes into the kiss.

He responds with a growl, pulling her more firmly against him as his tongue invades her mouth. She gives and gives and gives because while she won't admit to imagining this, she can't help but be thrilled by the reality.

God, he's a fantastic kisser.

Even Callen will admit, though grudgingly, to being a bit dazed when they pull away.

"Okay," she whispers, her eyes glowing. "You're forgiven."

He uses than hand in her hair to tilt her head back and has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from putting his mouth on her neck. "Mistletoe."

He  _feels_  the damn shiver race through her and wonders if it's been a regular occurrence over the last few days.

"Oh," she says softly, "Well okay then."

He's not sure what he expects her to do, but when she trails her hand around his neck and over his shoulder, he knows it's not that. She's reluctant to break free of him, reluctant to walk away. He can't blame her because he feels it too. It's a murmur in the back of his mind.

 _Don't let her go_.

It feels like a stupid moment out of time, like all of those damn romance books that make no sense and chick flicks that give off an unnatural expectation of relationships. It's not them and he finds himself chuckling as her fingers weave in his. He takes his hand from her hair and finds himself squeezing her hand before separating completely.

"Sun up," she says, almost twitching. In fact, she leans towards him, just a touch, before falling back on her heels. She lets out a frustrated noise that does make him laugh before she turns and heads out of the hacienda.

And he smiles as he returns to his desk, the crippling fear banished.

At least for another day.


	15. December 15, 2012

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Update for my birthday! I love when the muse cooperates.

_It's for an assignment, he reminds himself as he steps into the classroom. The front bench is occupied by a rather temperamental looking man, while the others are spread with a variety of people and pieces of equipment. He's not the last person to this class, but he's not the first either._

_A cooking class._

_A damn cooking class._

_This is the absolute last thing he ever expected to be doing for an assignment. Not that he minds. He's never really made cooking part of his life – kind of impossible considering no one really taught him growing up and he has no need to now – and he's pretty sure he's going to hate this class, but he's not here because he wants to be._

_At least, until he meets Alie._

_Alie is spring and fresh. They're partnered together on that first day and she's just as nervous as he is. She's doing it for fun, she tells him, because she needs to learn and she wants to be good at it. He lies, of course, though not entirely. He's doing this for his job, he says, and she assumes he's a chef. It's a great time to practice for his assignment._

_His first instinct, when she invites him shyly for coffee, is to turn her down. No attachments. They're not good for him and he's not good for them. He's crap at keeping in touch and saying the right things to keep friends and relationships above water. He's okay with that. Plus, he can be an aloof bastard when he wants to be, no matter how shiny any once else is. He doesn't' know anything different._

_They go for coffee._

_She's happy, consistently, and he's shocked that it doesn't grate against his last nerve. He's already been through so much that he's already too aware of the darkness that floats about the world. Happy people bother him. He finds it naïve, mostly. Willful ignorance based on a lack of interaction with the things he sees. Maybe it's a bit of jealousy. But it doesn't matter. She brightens his day in that moment and every moment after that when he goes to that class. They go for coffee every time they have class and they talk for hours._

_But as the class comes to an end, he knows he's about to disappear. He's been gently turning her away whenever she suggests anything more than coffee. He can't help it and he's good at it. He's had so much practice and he's excellent at making it sound like there's nothing he'd like more than to spend time with her, there's just so much going on._

_The last time, though, the last class, their last coffee, he agrees. He follows her home, tells her it's because she promised him Croatian cookies. It's close enough, and he's told her he has relatives that still live there. Partial truth, the best way to create a backstory. It's one of the first things he'd told her. She looks shy as she leads him into her apartment. It's small and cozy and he has the best time that afternoon making the cookies._

_It's the warmest he'd felt so very rarely as they worked on the cookies, laughed, joked. It's shockingly easy to fall into it with her. He wants to say it's too easy. When the cookies are in the oven, they sit on the couch and he weaves an epic tale about becoming a chef, about an influential woman in his life. She thinks it's his mother and he lets her. And when she asks if she can see him again, he has to tell her no._

_He's going to Europe, he says, and he doesn't know when he'll be stateside again. He can actually hear her heart break. He closes his eyes and turns away from her, pacing to her front window. He explains why he was so reluctant, closes his eyes as he tells her lie after lie about a company that doesn't exist, about a family he used to dream about as a boy. He draws on years of a different kind of pain to cloak himself in as he turns and apologizes._

_He leaves before the cookies are done._

_Years later, when he's just finished looking an arms dealer in the gun and cannot for the life of him calm down, he goes to a bookstore. He spends hours scouring the bookshelves for a recipe and when he finds it, he takes it home. He spends all night making cookies, hundreds of them, and sneaks them into the office the next day. No one knows, but those moments, those hours, stirring, measuring, kneading, remind him of sunshine and happiness, naïve as it was._

_And it makes him feel better._

_. . . . ._

Baking.

Actual baking.

Legitimate, actual, proper baking.

Nothing from a tin, container, or bag.

From scratch, no holds barred, real, actual, proper baking.

Hetty's out to kill them.

At least, that's the general explosion that occurs in the bullpen as everyone files in that morning. None of them admit to being cooks, let alone half decent bakers, and the idea that they then have to share their creations with the team puts them all on edge. It's guilt and embarrassment. No one wants to fail and everyone knows they will.

On the surface.

Callen is different.

It's not that he doesn't like to cook or bake. It's not that he can't. He definitely has the ability, in spades. He's an insomniac and he's constantly on the move. He'd taken a course years back for a case and most of it had stuck. To him, it's kind of like assembling a gun. Put everything in the right place, at the right time, and ensure all of the bonding agents are in place. It's easy. And he's damn good at it.

Everyone else looks absolutely panicked. Even Sam, who could easily get Michelle's help, looks like he's a fish out of water. It would entertain him if it didn't scare him. He doesn't relish being poisoned by Deeks and the detective had been more than happy to share the story of Kensi's 'baking' attempt while undercover in suburbia. Even Nell looks a little worried and they all know how family-oriented the analyst is. But Eric seems to have Nell well in hand so his attention turns to the rest of his team.

"She won't know," Deeks is saying, and it doesn't take a genius to realize he's talking about Hetty. "Right?"

Sam rolls his eyes. "This is Hetty we're talking about."

"She'll know," Kensi agrees, and he can see the way she's weaving her fingers together anxiously. "I'm useless in a kitchen."

Something tugs at him with her words. He'd gone home with the memory of his mouth on hers firmly in his mind, unable to think of anything else while he attempted to overcome the insomnia, if only for a couple of hours. He'd even broken about nine of his own rules when he'd sent her a text at the ungodly hour he'd made it into the office.

_Sun's up. Where are you?_

He'd gotten a half coherent angry text back, but it had made him smile. She made him smile, and there's something about the idea that she is unable to cook, that he can cook for her, that pokes at the ice his heart calls home.

"Well," Deeks pipes up with a charming smile that is suddenly grating on Callen's nerves. "Come by mine. We'll fail together."

"Yes, because there's nothing I'd like more than having you mock me for my inability to not burn a cookie," she snarks back, but under that is a layer of truth. Anxiousness, worry, peevishness that Callen finds bothers him. There's no way just a kiss could change so much, is there?

But it has and they both know it. The tentative smile she'd given him when she'd stepped into the bullpen; the gentle way she brushed a hand across his shoulders as she headed to the coffee maker; the wink he'd sent her as she climbed the stairs ahead of him for a briefing before Hetty's bombshell. It's all different. They're all changes. Not bad changes, he doesn't think, but changes nonetheless. Changes that make him warm and, he kind of hopes, leaves her with a mysterious shine to her being.

"Awe, come on, Kens! I won't mock if you won't."

Her hackles rise. It's almost a visible thing. "I'd rather burn my kitchen down. It could use renovating."

"Burn mine down first," Callen finds himself offering. It's nonchalant in front of the team, but he finds he means it. He thinks he'd enjoy having her in his space, learning a skill that he has and she doesn't. Those are slim. After all, they work the same job. There are few things he could teach her. But this, he wants to, reasoning be damned.

There's a spark in her eye, even as she scoffs. "I think you can handle that on your own."

He puts a hand to his heart, as if wounded, but he knows he's planted a seed. Now he just has to wait, to bide his time.

But by the end of the day she looks so exhausted that he doesn't extend the offer again. Instead, he lets her head home and does the same himself. She'll find something, he knows, even though he's a little disappointed. But there's no pressure with them, there's not supposed to be pressure, regardless of the fact that he wants to see her, wants to spend time with her and wants her in his space.

And that's a hell of a thing to get his head around.

He's surprised when there's a knock and she's on the other side. The surprise must show, because her beaming smile dims, just a little.

"I- I just assumed that- I mean you said-" She centers herself, taking a deep breath. "Was the offer genuine?"

He just steps back in response, letting her in. He's already pulled everything out, a recipe he now knows because of a long-ago happy memory, and his kitchen looks a bit disastrous. For a man so rigid in everything he does, he's a spectacularly chaotic cook.

"Wow."

He's actually self-conscious. It's a unique feeling, one he is most definitely not used to. Sure, this is, in some ways, his element, but the absolute shock on Kensi's face doesn't make him feel the greatest about the secret he's just revealed.

"This isn't just cookies."

He shrugs. "Medenjaci," he says, the word rolling off his tongue. "Croatian honey spice cookies."

She stands in the doorway to his kitchen, looking over the scattered goods on his counters. "Callen, this is nuts."

His hands slide into his pockets. He doesn't honestly know what to say. This is closer than anything he's ever told her, his heart and a sanctuary for him in the dark hell that is what they do and see day to day. He forces himself to step around her after a moment, saying, "Just walnuts."

It breaks the ice because she glares, no menace in the narrowing of her eyes. "Cute." Then she sheds her coat, draping it over the only kitchen chair he owns. For the first time, his lack of furniture bothers him. It hadn't when she'd shown up at his door, chocolate egg in hand, nervous and curious. He almost growls to himself, hating how self-conscious he feels. This is Kensi, he knows Kensi. So he forces himself to step over to the counter, reaching for the butter.

"Come on. I'll show you."

. . . . .

Kensi hates him a little right now.

In fact, more than a little. He's so confident, he's so… normal. And she feels like she's losing it inside. A kiss. A freaking kiss, and everything changes. She feels it, she thinks. Still, she steps up beside him, because there's nothing else she can do. She's here to learn about baking cookies, about how to make them, what to do. She can't bake worth a crap and she needs this. They both know it.

"Okay." She rolls up her sleeves. "Where do we start?"

"Heat the butter," he says. "With the sugar and honey."

He reaches past her, brushing her arm entirely without intention. Her heart jacks up and she hates it. Her eyes flutter closed and she's a teenaged girl with sweaty hands and a pounding heartbeat. She curses herself and curses him because it shouldn't be like this. There's no supposed to be any pressure, there's not supposed to be any of this worry or concern over all the things going on between them and around them.

"How much? How do you even know?"

He laughs a little, and there's a confident smirk on his face. Then he taps his temple. "A cup of butter."

He very carefully coaches her through every step, letting her do most of the work, subtly correcting her mistakes – and yes she notices.

"You've done this before," she says as she helps him divide and roll the dough.

They haven't spoken much, with the exception of his instructions, just dropped into the easy rhythm that makes them work well together undercover. It's funny, she kind of thinks, that she and Callen can fall into the rhythm so easily when she and Sam, though they're rarely partnered, have to take some time to get used to each other again. It's always just been easy with Callen.

Her heart clenches at the thought. Easy. It shouldn't be easy. Not now, not after The Kiss, not now that they've actually spoken about what that means, about what they mean. In a totally Kensi-and-Callen way, of course, but she's not the type to really talk about her feelings and certainly not to Callen. It's not like Callen's very forthcoming with that kind of information either, and yet…

"I find it therapeutic," he says, voice slow.

Her eyes fly to his, and while his are definitely guarded, it's a guardedness she's very familiar with. He wants to trust her. He may not even realize how vulnerable it makes him, how vulnerable he's trying to be. She never realizes it until she's spoken, until the secret's out in the air and she's waiting for the judgment to fall.

"Most people do," she offers quietly. She swallows. "How long?"

He shrugs. He can't remember how long. After a while, all the missions blur together and all he has are pieces. He remembers Alie, it's the time that's slid by faster than he can keep track. He's been in the game too damn long to be able to tell it all apart anymore.

She waits until they've put the first batch in the oven, starting to clean up because she's full of an odd nervous energy. "Jack had a grandmother, on his mother's side."

"Most people do."

She's unfazed by the remark, which is unsettling in itself. How far have they come that she barely acknowledges his snark now? She knows what he's trying to say, that he's trying to push the conversation forward. She shouldn't like it, but it makes a piece of her smile.

"She had a shortbread recipe," she goes on. "Jack and I held Christmas in LA once. Just once. Jack was absolutely adamant about making the damn cookies." She laughs, then turns, her hands on the counter, elbows bent. She considers hoisting herself onto the counter. "I cannot bake. I can't. If you left, right now, I'd burn every single one of those cookies. Every one. Even with a timer. It's a curse."

He leans back against the fridge, a small piece of his mind terribly content about the comfortable way she's standing in his kitchen. He toys with the idea of hoisting her up and stepping between her knees and discards it. He's not even sure he wants to go there. Kensi's different, after all, and he doesn't want to push it beyond where they're capable of going. Even if he still has the phantom taste of her on his tongue.

"Jack didn't listen," she goes on. "We must have baked dozens. None of them were ever perfect. None of them were close." She laughs now, but remembers the traumatic horror of the time. "Jack was a mess; I was a mess. And you know the first thing his grandmother asked for?"

He grins.

"The damn cookies," she agrees, finally deciding to hoist herself up to the counter. She swings her legs for a beat, a soft smile on her face. "And Jack, God love him, could not tell her that we couldn't do it. I'd only met the woman the year before and here I am, explaining that neither of us are bakers. To an old country grandmother. I must have been such a disappointment."

She doesn't look unhappy, so he doesn't correct her.

"The next day, she pulls me aside while Jack's got all the males in his family on a basketball court. I hated being there with the women. I never really fit in. But his grandmother pulled me into our tiny little kitchen and walked me, step by step, through baking her shortbread."

"And?"

Kensi blushes now, and he can feel his pulse jack up. Adorable is not a word he associates with her, but it's a shy embarrassed blush that makes him want to wrap her up in his arms.

God, this whole thing was a bad idea.

She laughs a little. "I tried to make them again, a couple months later. Tried being the operative word."

He offers her a smile, unable to keep himself from stepping towards her, from reaching out to rest his hands on her knees. It's probably one of the least intimate things he's done all evening, but it feels like more.

"I burnt most of them," she says, her voice dropping to a low murmur. "I even called her."

He laughs, low and throaty. Her throat bobs and his eyes are drawn to it, even as his fingers doodle random patterns just above her kneecaps and his feet push him forward, just slightly. "Hopeless."

"Entirely," she agrees and her eyes flick down to his mouth. It's a bad idea, pushing this, and she knows it. But, she's woman enough to admit, even if it's only to herself, that she wants it.

The timer beeps when his mouth is a breath from hers and she feels his exhale against her lips. It makes her smile and laugh humourlessly as he pulls away. It's a moment ruined and it isn't until they've packed the cookies for the morning and she's just sliding on her coat that he corners her against the door.

It feels impulsive and spontaneous and so, so good as he unapologetically plunders her mouth. She gives as good as she gets, this kiss better than the last and instead of pulling away when the kiss comes to a shockingly natural end, he slides a hand to the small of her back, pressing her closer.

"Her name was Alie," he tells her, his eyes still closed and breath still ragged.

Her hands float to his face, thumbs brushing his temples. "She was special."

When his eyes open she sucks in a deep breath because what he wants to say is written there clear as day.

_So are you._

And it feels like there's no going back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm fudging the recipe. Big time. The one I found says you have to leave the dough 1-3 days. I don't have time for them to wait 1-3 days! So pretend it's a really weird cooking show where the dough is magically pre-prepped? Thanks.


	16. December 16, 2012

_He's seventeen._

_A year shy of aging out._

_A year shy of becoming his own person._

_A year shy of being able to disappear like smoke._

_He's excited, though no one knows. There isn't a soul that has any idea what he plans after graduating. There isn't a teacher, a guidance counselor, and certainly no one at his latest foster home._

_But in January, there's a girl._

_It's three weeks until winter formal. He doesn't go to those things though. Hates them. Not his style. He's never been in a foster home or school long enough to make friends, so he barely blinks at the sparkling advertisements posted on bulletin boards and doors as he heads to biology._

_Until the snowflakes start showing up._

_He finds the first one_ in _his textbook. He shrugs it off. They share textbooks, is the thing, and it's entirely possible that Jess, his bench partner, left it there the last time she took the book to study. Or it could be from years before, tucked away in the pages of a bored student. He's not even sure why he pulls it out and tucks it away in his things._

_The second one pops up wedged into the corner of his locker. Probably a mistake, he thinks. Maybe someone caught on that he's a bit of a Grinch about this whole winter formal thing and is trying to change his mind. He very carefully hides it with the first._

_There's a third in his backpack, a fourth in the pocket of his jeans after gym class. Five is in his math notebook, six tucked between pencils in his bag. It's driving him nuts and it's terribly intriguing at the same time. He's even kept a list at home, trying to work out who would have had access to all of these places. Some of them, like the locker, is public access. But places like his jeans, or his notebooks? Well, that requires a little more finesse._

_By the time seven comes around, it's the last day to buy tickets for the winter formal. Two weeks, seven snowflakes, and he's no closer to figuring out who the culprit is. He hates it. He's always been good at puzzles, knew exactly who was stealing the milk and changing the television stations before his foster parents caught Charlie doing both (Magpie, they call him, 'cause he hides things. They're thinking it's an attention thing, him and Mike.) But this has him absolutely stumped._

_And he doesn't like it._

_He finds out on Friday, between third period math and his fourth period English. That's when Karen finds him._

" _Hi," she says shyly._

_He blinks a little. He knows Karen. They have classes together. They don't speak much – then again, he doesn't really speak to anyone – but he knows her. He watches, is the thing. Pays attention. He knows the head cheerleader is definitely not flouting convention and has half the football team wrapped around her finger. He also knows that the captain of the championship volleyball team isn't gay at all, he's just been seeing the biggest goody-two-shoes on the down low, as per her request._

_And Karen? Well, she's average. She's pretty, in the way high school girls are, and she's pretty smart. She sticks to herself though, draws a lot. He's seen some of her artwork displayed around the school._

" _Hi," he answers as they fall into step. English is across the school from his math class. It's a long walk. He doesn't think much of it though. Karen sits two seats behind him. Had some great insights on_ Romeo and Juliet _last week._

_She's biting her lip. He can see it out of the corner of his eye. He's got standoffish down to a science, can make even the most persistent people run, so he's not sure why he isn't pulling it out now. She looks nervous, and he knows it would be a simple snap of his fingers to send her running. Instead, he huffs out a sigh and tugs her into the very quiet home ec wing._

" _Karen?"_

_She blinks. "You know my name."_

_Oh, the snarky responses._

" _Did you need something?" he asks gently instead. Gently. Like he cares. Like he doesn't want to hurt her. Where is his 'bad boy' attitude when he really needs it?_

_She's shaking. He can see it. Vibrating as she reaches into her books. He knows his face is shocked when she pulls a snowflake from the pages of Shakespeare._

" _Mindy said you didn't do these things, that I was stupid to even think about it or ask or whatever, and then there's the whole I'm a girl and it's totally not socially acceptable but-"_

" _Karen."_

" _Will you go to winter formal with me?"_

_He blinks. Shocked. Absolutely shocked. It is literally the last thing he expected. He takes the snowflake slowly, like he can't process what's going on. Which, unfortunately, is rather accurate. He doesn't know Karen, certainly can't say he likes her, but she's standing in front of him, in a deserted hallway, chewing a hole through her lip. He's not exactly sure why the next words come out of his mouth._

" _Sure. I'll go."_

_Her whole face lights up and while he's certainly not looking for a girl, or even attachments when he's so damn close to aging out, objectively, she glows._

" _Yeah?" she asks, voice suddenly so quietly soft._

" _Yeah," he finds himself saying. "Yeah."_

_She's absolutely beaming as they walk to English._

* * *

Kensi doesn't expect anything the next day. She's known Callen for a stupidly long time in relation to others in her life, so she knows that after an intense evening, after the sharing that went on, he's going to need space. So when she doesn't see him when she gets into the hacienda, she really doesn't think anything of it. She's not even upset when there's no text, no acknowledgment.

She is surprised to find a snowflake tucked under the folder on her desk.

Sam and Callen are missing – not unique, they don't always work together, all four of them – but Deeks is at his desk and she holds up the white decoration accusingly.

"You?"

Deeks actually startles, like he had no idea she'd just walked in. Except she's not an idiot, and though she's started this Thing with Callen, she and Deeks have always had a weird connection. Actually, sometimes she wonders if it was always going to be one or the other. Then she firmly shuts down that line of thinking.

Deeks is shaking his head. "Nope."

She arches an eyebrow. He'd joke like this. He's been trying to get her to go to some ski cabin. She thinks maybe if she and Callen weren't so invested in what they're doing – because that's not a mind-boggling scenario in itself – she'd have said yes a long time ago. Hell, he'd invited her mother, aware she and Julia have been trying to mend some serious fences here.

His hands go up. "Not me. Tackiest Christmas decoration ever."

Her eyebrow wings higher. "There's a part of Christmas you  _don't_  like?"

"I don't like talking about it."

"Oh  _really?_ " And he had to know. He had to know she'd push. It makes her smile, sometimes. She's pretty sure he does it on purpose.

"I had a bad experience in kindergarten, okay?"

Kensi laughs.

Thing is though, it doesn't answer her question. It certainly doesn't explain the way she continues to find them all day. After the one on her desk, she finds one on the seat of her car and one in the glove box when she reaches in for her stash of Twinkies. Well, Deeks finds the one in the glove box because she gets cranky on a suspect mid-morning. He knows her car too well.

"Maybe you have a secret admirer," Nell says at lunch. She and Kensi try and make it out of the hacienda together at least once a week. A girl bonding thing, because Kensi sure doesn't have many girlfriends. Neither does Nell for that matter.

"We're not in high school," Kensi fires back stabbing her salad viciously. She brought it up, she really did, because there was one tucked in her bag when she went to get her wallet for lunch. Nell had gotten this mushy smile on her face. It had dropped fast when the analyst had caught sight of Kensi's confusion.

"No, but we're in an office of secret agents."

Kensi rolls her eyes. "That go elementary playground?" Then her face turns ashen. "You don't think it's Wong, do you?"

"The tech?" Nell shrugs when Kensi nods. "He is young."

"I know! This kind of thing would totally be his thing."

Nell snorts. Then she cocks her head to the side. "You don't think it's Callen?"

"Not his style," Kensi replies without thinking. "And we baked cookies together last night. Space day."

It takes a minute for Kensi to really realize what she's just spilled. Nell looks positively gleeful.

"Is that what the cool kids are calling it these days?" she murmurs.

To her utter horror, Kensi feels her cheeks flushing.

Nell laughs. "Come on. We knew. We all know."

It doesn't stem Kensi's blush. In fact, it makes it worse.

"Kensi-" Nell actually looks a little alarmed now, like this is entirely not the reaction she'd anticipated. Not that it's a far thought. Just, it's  _Callen_  and she's Kensi and-

God it's a mess.

"It's not," Nell says, startling Kensi. "It's not a mess. Kensi-"

She doesn't go on. Kensi chews her lip. Twenty minutes ago, hell, twenty seconds ago, she'd been happy. Excited even. Now that she's said something to Nell-

Well, she thinks maybe she just made things really, really real. It's no longer just her and Callen, sharing – hot – kisses and Christmas traditions. Now it's actually a Thing. A real, live, capital-T Thing because here she is, girl-talking about it. And she can feel it all clawing up her throat, all her worries, concerns, everything that she's been trying not to think about.

Nell huffs out a breath. "Okay, um. I have something that's going to scare you."

Kensi's already rapidly beating heart jumps again as Nell leans across the tiny bistro table.

"It was always going to be you."

"What?"

Nell rolls her eyes. "Okay. Maybe not always but, there was this choice?" She huffs at herself. "I always got the sense that Callen was deliberately choosing not to get involved with anyone. Like, he had options and just- just didn't."

Kensi rolls her eyes. "It's not exactly like the job is conducive to a healthy dating life."

"I don't think so," Nell says. "Look, there's- there's always something there. I mean, you and Deeks, it's kind of obvious, but you and Callen? It's subtle. You have to look for it." She swallows in this way Kensi knows means what's about to come out of her mouth may not be the nicest thing, or even something Kensi wants to hear. "Early on, I thought-" She shakes her head. "But then there was you, and, there was Eric. So."

Kensi's eyebrow climbs her forehead. "There was Eric?"

Nell's red now, as red as Kensi's pretty sure she was a few moments before. "Um. Nothing. Nothing. I have to go."

Kensi grins as the analyst scrambles away.

. . . . .

The fourth one pops up in her inbox while she plows through paperwork that afternoon. She finds one buried in an autopsy report from a different case, and Eric unwittingly passes one along in a list of suspects for her and Deeks to comb through while Sam pops undercover with Callen as backup.

She's got all six of them spread across her desk when Callen and Sam return, looking a little worse for wear. She wrinkles her nose. "He run?"

"Don't they always?" Callen asks, slapping Sam's shoulder. The bigger man glares and winces. Callen's grinning as they break away. "How many?"

"Snowflakes?" she asks, surprised. It's not exactly something she thought he'd ask, and definitely no in the open office. He doesn't even look curious so much as… Intrigued? "Um. Six."

He seems to nod, slipping around the desk behind her to his own seat. He shocks her when his hand skims her back. Her back arches, just a little. It's sensitive. He's smirking as he settles in his seat and reaches into his desk drawer. "How about seven?"

For a federal agent that does undercovers for a living, she knows the emotion is stupidly clear on her face. She's surprised and touched and so utterly and completely confused. It's intimate almost romantic, considering who she's talking about. She's not even sure she's processing the information. "You?"

He shrugs as she looks at the newest one, folded this time. She picks at the edges for a moment, folding them a little, then she opens it. There's a picture inside, a decorated tree. She looks up at him, confused.

"Thought maybe it was my turn to propose a tradition."

"Oh?" It's the best she can do. It's the closest she can get to a sentence.

"You need a tree, right?"

"I haven't had a tree in years," she murmurs absently. She doesn't know what to do, what to think, because this isn't-

"Let's get a tree."

He's leaning back in his seat, pretty far from her. His tone is carefree, like this doesn't matter, like if she laughs it off and says no there won't be a problem, there won't be fallout. They're two colleagues, having a discussion in the office.

She can't seem to make heads or tails of any of it.

"You know how to make these?" The words just come out, she's not even sure she's ready to say them. And she hadn't even known he could make snowflakes. Those were things taught in elementary schools, long before cynicism sets in.

Callen shrugs. "I got bored last night."

After she left. After the cookies were done. Her heart clenches in this weird way, part of her wishing she'd stayed to help him battle insomnia. And what the actual hell because they're not there. They're so far from there. There are a million other things to think of, obstacles and milestones before she can even think of a sleepover where there's –

"So. Tree hunting. Coming?"

Kensi looks down at the snowflake she's been worrying in her hands, thinks of the rest of them on her blotter.

"Yes."


	17. December 17. 2012

_Meeting Jack's family might be the most terrifying thing Kensi's ever done._

_She's pretty used to changing her spots. She'd been on the streets too long not to learn a thing or two about becoming whoever the person across from you wanted to be. Thing is though, nothing in the world, no amount of time on the streets, could have prepared her for the sheer overwhelming number that makes up just half of Jack's family._

_She's never been good with parents. She's never been good with families. There are too many skeletons in her closet for her to truly be the open, accepting, warm person most families want to see. Jack had been insistent, though. They've been together a year, and she is absolutely and utterly gone over him. Almost pathetically. So when he'd told her a month ago they were going to Montana for Christmas, she'd said no. Immediately. Repeatedly. Insistently._

_On December 20_ _th_ _, he'd packed her on a plane and they'd touched down in his home state a few hours later._

_So, here she is, a California girl stupidly out of place in the super snowy landscape of Montana in winter, overwhelmed by the sheer amount of people crowded into Jack's parents' place. The house is_ packed _. And at the center of it all is the imposing reigning monarch of Jack's mother's side._

_Jack's grandmother is intimidating. She's outspoken, opinionated, and old enough to get away with pretty much whatever she wants. She reigns with an iron fist. Kensi's watched every single aunt, uncle and cousin bow down to her superior power. They scramble to get her whatever she wants, automatically orient their attention towards her when she demands it. It's fascinating._

" _Jack," she hears suddenly, her head swirling to find him. It's as automatic for her as breathing, finding him in the crowd. His head's come up, his attention shifting automatically from the in depth conversation with a girl he thinks is his niece to focus on the 84-year-old matriarch. "Bring the girl here."_

_Jack finds her gaze, sees her raised eyebrow. 'The girl'? It kind of rubs her the wrong way, actually. She has a name, she matters. And okay, it might be a bit of a sore spot. Jack knows, and he deposits a gentle kiss on her forehead as he tugs her up and into him. She takes comfort in the way his fingers weave with hers._

" _She has a name, Nana," he scolds good-naturedly as they step closer. Two teenaged cousins scatter, thankful for the reprieve._

" _Kensi," the matriarch says immediately. "Kensi Blye. I'm old, not deaf or stupid."_

_Jack just looks amused as he sits with her on the vacated loveseat. Nana's looking her over critically. Kensi doesn't like it._

" _Bit thin, isn't she?"_

_Her mouth opens to argue, because what the actual hell? But Jack beats her to it._

" _Quick metabolism. She eats, Nan. Trust me, she_ eats. _"_

_Now she's directing some of her irritation to Jack. She's completely off kilter and he knows it. And doesn't seem to be all that apologetic about it either._

" _Not enough. She'll eat tonight."_

_Okay, really? Kensi grinds her teeth. She cannot stand people telling her what she's going to do, cannot stand people trying to control her. She just really can't. She's about to make that known when the woman bends down, a little awkwardly, into the carpet bag by her makeshift throne. She pulls from it a yellow ribbon. Kensi's heart clenches. She hates yellow ribbons. Her mother used to tie one to the tree in the front yard when her father was deployed. She did it too, Kensi remembers, after her mother left. She can remember waking to find it tied to her bedpost when her dad returned home. Until one day, he didn't._

_Jack's grip has tightened on her hand, trying to ground her. He knows her dad was in the military, that he's gone now, maybe guessed something about the ribbon from her reaction. But that's all he knows and he definitely knows it's not something up for discussion. He's not stupid though, has to be able to feel the way her body's tensed, gets that there's something else going on here._

_Nana holds the ribbon out to her. Now Kensi can feel Jack's body, taut as a bowstring beside her. "You will pick the tree."_

" _What?" It comes out high, squeaky. Like she's fragile, breaking. She clears her throat. "I'm sorry?"_

" _Our Christmas tree," Jack says, with a hefty dose of awe in his voice. He sounds so positively stunned that Kensi turns to look at him, to check, to try and figure out what's going on. "We tie that ribbon around the tree we pick for this place. Because this is where we have Christmas."_

 _The sheer_ meaning _of what is being offered to her hits her like a ton of bricks. She blinks unseeingly at the ribbon._

" _I am too old to go trekking through that abominable snow," Nana says, looking every inch a royal. It only takes a look to snap Jack's mouth closed. Kensi's not really surprised. From the way Jack talks about his grandmother – a widow that lives alone – the woman is all but invincible. And here they are, they all are, faced with her mortality, her increasing age. Kensi's getting the sense that the ribbon has always been Nana's responsibility._

" _It is time, I think," Nana goes on, running the ribbon through her fingers for a moment, "to pass on the torch, so to speak."_

_Kensi just kind of looks at that yellow ribbon, at the staggering acceptance that comes with it._

_Then Nana leans forward. "I do not presume to know what has young eyes like your so haunted, what caused so many scars on your heart. But it is obvious to me that my grandson is in love with you. You make him happy, and while I love all of my grandchildren equally-" She shrugs with a terrifyingly mischievous grin. "Jack has mentioned you do not have much family. So take the ribbon, Kensi. Now you do."_

_Kensi swallows as Nana reaches out, wrapping the ribbon in Kensi's loose fingers. Then she offers a smile that is full of emotion, so very full._

" _Welcome to mine."_

* * *

He's got her entirely off kilter. One hundred percent off kilter and it's terrifying. It's worse than terrifying. She liked it better when she was the one in control, when she was the one that had decided they would take it slow, one step at a time.

Not like this.

This was confusing.

And to top it off, she's never really been this bloody girly.

She hasn't really slept. She's been working off the assumption that it's excitement, and living in fervent denial that hunting for a Christmas tree could, under any situation, be considered a first date. And yet, she's dressed a little bit nicer than she would, even for the office. 'Good' pair of jeans, a 'nicer' t-shirt and her unscuffed pair of boots. Even dug up one of her less worn leather jackets to combat California's version of winter temperatures.

Something's shifted. Again, like the ground is totally unsteady beneath her already off-balance feet. Which, it is Callen, after all. There's an element of expectation that comes with his natural unpredictability. But – well, it had felt pretty intense yesterday, the change.

Granted, she also hasn't been tree hunting in years. Her dad made a big deal of it, yeah. Packed her up, didn't matter where they were stationed. They looked hours some years, her dad dragging it out just to spend as much time with her as he could. Jack, when they were in California, always said it was blasphemous to hunt for a tree without snow. Beyond the first year she'd picked out a tree for his parents' place, she hasn't looked for a Christmas tree since her father was killed.

So. It's – been a while.

Callen doesn't pick her up at the door. It levels her, just a bit, makes it all feel a little less like a date. It takes some of the weird pressure off her shoulders. Right up until she climbs in his Impala and he hands over a paper cup of perfectly doctored coffee.

"Morning," he greets, like they do this every day.

Now it's different again. Because they  _don't_  do this every day. They don't even do it some of the days. If she needs a ride into work, Deeks picks her up. Partners. And Callen certainly doesn't bring her coffee. She didn't even know he knew how she likes hers. The butterflies and worries are back, the 'what ifs' racing through her head. And he's not exhibiting a single tick, any twitch of movement that would lead her to believe he's feeling even half the nerves she is.

"Morning," she can't help but murmur back. Her voice is soft, warm, filled with an emotion she absolutely refuses to name with the sheer army of butterflies rumbling through her stomach.

It does something to Callen too. She sees his fingers tap an uneven rhythm against the steering wheel before he reaches over and grips her chin. Then his mouth is on hers and she releases a completely undignified squeak. Her body goes cold, then hot; she can feel the centre console digging into her side, the pressure of his fingers against her cheek, the hot stroke of his tongue against her lips. They're both breathing harshly when they part, and Kensi licks her lips, surprised when the taste of him lingers. Her eyes flutter open like a damn romance novel and she blinks away the haze. "Hi."

"Hi," he answers, a smirk spreading across his face.

It's the smirk that settles the butterflies this time, the one that reminds her that despite everything between them, he's still just Callen. She laughs a little and shoves at his shoulder before curling her fingers back around her paper mug.

"Shut up," she mutters, but there's definitely more affection than heat in the words. "Let's get a tree."

. . . . .

They don't actually drive that far. She's kind of surprised because she'd been anticipating a real tree farm. They have a few in the greater Los Angeles area – they're close to the mountains, after all, they do have appropriate coniferous trees – but this is 'within' the city limits. It's not really a farm so much as a lot of pre-cut trees.

She's grateful for it.

She's battling a lot of memories today, good and painful. Jack and her father and a yellow ribbon that's actually in the bag slung across her body. And she's picking out a Christmas tree with Callen. Excuse her if it's all a little overwhelming.

He actually takes control the minute they're out of the car, his fingers weaving easily with hers. It makes her jolt and she forces herself to relax. She's not really sure what this new normal is, snowflakes and baking cookies and holding hands while finding the perfect Christmas tree.

He wants to help her find a tree.

"Did you ever get to do this?" she asks tentatively, about half an hour into the hunt. She's being picky, particular. It's the first one she's picked out in years; she certainly doesn't want one that isn't right.

"No," Callen answers from the other side of the tree she's currently inspecting. So far, he's basically held up the tree in its bucket, spinning it so Kensi can see all sides. "It's chaos to take that many kids."

Kensi bites her lip a little, surprised at the way the answer slips so easily off his tongue. "After?"

He cranes his neck around the tree, watching her for a moment before raising an eyebrow. "Never had a reason. You know Sam and Michelle invite me for Christmas every year, right?"

The shyness is back, creeping up with the heated blush she can feel staining her cheeks. "So you've never picked a tree."

Callen leans the blue pine back against the long row of fence it calls home. "No."

The biting has turned into chewing now. She hasn't really been telling him why she's turned now every tree they've looked at. She hasn't been letting him in on the deep-rooted, well-practiced art to choosing a Christmas tree. She meets his eyes, a new determination washing through her. "Pick it."

He's genuinely shocked. She's taken him entirely by surprise. "Huh?"

"You pick the tree," she says, reaching out for his hand. It's the first contact she's initiated, as skittish as she is. He steps closer when their fingers intertwine, still looking stunned.

"Kens-"

She shakes her head. She gets that this is her thing, she does. She's the Christmas fanatic between them. But it's a shared thing. "New memories, right?" She huffs at him a little. "Every one should get to pick out there own tree. And this is one place I have way more expertise than you."

He still doesn't like it – and the amount of emotion she's seen spread across his usually closed-off face is an introspection for another time – but he looks resigned. She wonders if maybe he had a plan, if right now she's barreling right through it.

She doesn't really care.

Because she's felt off-kilter the whole time. He's been touching her, holding her hand. She's caught him looking at her out of the corner of his eye, watching her. She's felt his hand ghost against her back, whisper through her hair. It's affection, because there's nothing else it could be, and it's been putting her teeth on edge.

It's not that she doesn't want him. It's the exact opposite actually, and the millions of problems that come with it that she's totally just thinking of now. They're coworkers, for example. Their mortality rate is significantly higher due to the number of bombs and guns they tend to face, not to mention deadly chemicals and poisons. They work on the same team, which means so many different complications the next time they're in perilous situations. Then there's the specifics, like his wandering heart and her dire need to set down roots.

So she needs to feel in control again, like this is worth looking into. Like they can actually make something of it, because if there's a chance in hell to counteract all the bad, they need to build something good. Something really, really good. And there's a little flickering thought in her head. Maybe, perhaps, Christmas can help them do that.

So, she tugs him along, has him pick up trees and points out their flaws. Height, branch thickness, holes in this side or that side. Some of them are almost Charlie Brown trees, she thinks. And he listens. It's one of his big strengths, the listening. He pays attention, starts looking for the same.

Eventually, they find it. Well, Callen finds it, which doesn't surprise Kensi maybe as much as it should. It makes her pretty darn happy though, and she tries to tell herself that it's the successful discovery of the perfect Christmas tree and not her happiness that spreads a smile across his face.


	18. December 18, 2012

_It's Christmas again._

_The beautiful season. She's seen the Washington snow on the news, heard of the massive snowstorm that has all but suffocated Montana – and thought of picking up the phone – and even the temperatures in LA have dropped significantly. Then there's the lights, the garlands, the wreaths, the music._

_Christmas._

_Kensi kind of wishes it would go away._

_She knows she's not that girl. She's a girl that loves the holiday season, adores it, even. It's a love handed down and nurtured by her now-deceased father and reawaken by her now-runaway ex-fiancé._

_Ex._

_It hurts._

_It broke her, if she's honest. To be grateful to have her solider home for Christmas only to have him disappear for Christmas morning had been too much. Instead of celebrating she'd torn down every decoration and packed away every present._

_She hasn't touched those boxes in a year. She's refused, even though they'd come with her to the new apartment. There's nothing for Christmas out at her house._

_Unfortunately for her, the NCIS Office of Special Projects celebrates. Or, well, decorates. It's been making Kensi nauseous since the 'holiday season' began. But she's new and fresh and knows there's no one in the world who has less of a say in the office decorating scheme right now._

_She shares her tiny little cubicle of an office with two other, more senior agents. They're both there, bickering good-naturedly when she steps in._

" _Come on, man. You've got to come."_

" _Nuh uh, no way. I don't do families."_

_Kensi's pretty sure she's never seen ex-SEAL special agent Sam Hanna pout. She's also pretty sure the man's damn close to doing just that. Or begging. Either would be disturbing, she thinks. "You're my partner. You're supposed to have my back."_

" _And I do. In the field," Callen responds. "Every day."_

" _So it's just another op," Sam retorts. "Partners."_

" _Take Kens."_

_Kensi's head comes up at that. It's a long-abhorred nickname that Callen insists on. She's given up verbally expressing her displeasure but offers him a glare that could kill. She turns to give Sam a smile._

" _Take Kensi to what?"_

 _Sam rolls his eyes. "Yes, let's take the young, pretty_ very new _agent to the first actually Christmas dinner with my girlfriend."_

_Kensi's eyebrow climbs her forehead._

" _We were both working last year," Sam explains quickly and vaguely. They have a strict no-ask policy around personal lives. "She wants to do Christmas dinner our way this year."_

_Ah. A milestone. Kensi can understand Sam's vehemence. "Who have you invited?"_

" _Her friends. One of my SEAL buddies."_

_Not many on his side. Since she's known Sam a while she can guess at where this is going. Their job can be isolationist by nature, but that's not going to help Sam show his girlfriend that work doesn't take over his life. By inviting work friends, but logic is a different story._

" _Plenty of people," Callen pipes up. "No need to put in the extra effort of adding one more."_

" _She's planning for an army."_

" _It's just dinner," Kensi agrees. "You eat, play nice, then go home."_

" _And I know you don't have plans for Christmas Eve," Sam adds._

_Callen looks to Kensi, then back to Sam. "Alright, we'll both be there."_

" _Wait, what?" That definitely hadn't been the plan. She doesn't do Christmas._

" _Do you have plans?" Callen asks with a raised eyebrow._

_She's in a corner. She knows it. "Well, no, but-"_

" _Then it's settled."_

 _Kensi's mouth opens and closes. He's her boss and all, direct orders and this twisted need to please so they'll keep her at NCIS – and yes she knows how that sounds, thanks therapy – but_ Christmas. _Between that and the relief that is actually all over Sam's face, her mouth snaps shut._

_Except that night she goes home and has a nightmare. Jack and her dad, dinner at Sam's. There's blood and pain and another reason to hate Christmas. She wakes in the middle of a panic attack, tears streaking down her face and lungs unable to expand._

_She shares a surveillance van with Sam that afternoon and makes up a story about an aunt in San Diego._

_She's grateful when Sam doesn't ask._

* * *

He's never really let himself consider Kensi as a woman he could date.

It's not the age thing. With everything he's learned about her, everything she's been through, she's wise beyond her years and when they're in the field, she certainly never seems like her age. And it's not that she's not beautiful because he's never been blind. So besides the fact that he has never really thought about dating in general – he's an undercover federal agent, not stupid – there's no reason to think of Kensi as a viable romantic interest.

Except that she's Kensi.

They work together. She carries a gun. She could kick his ass. He's got baggage he does not need to foist on her and, if he's bluntly honest, any romantic interest in her had been pushed even further aside with the arrival of Detective Deeks.

He flicks his fingers over the wooden star he's made a special stop for. Things are different. Now, she is a romantic interest. There can't be a doubt. Sure, it's a no pressure romantic interest, but it is a romantic interest. He shouldn't. They shouldn't.

But they are.

And he's here.

A casual invitation after shift. She had to stay late, to finish up some paperwork, and he'd been itching to hit the gym. She'd merely mentioned her tree needed decorating. He'd thought immediately of the ornament that had been today's advent calendar gift, and told her to text him when she was off. He's late now, kind of, but when she yells that the door's open, he figures she doesn't much care.

He does kind of care that she is actually surrounded when he steps in. It's more than a bit daunting.

"I know," she says, and that's another thing. She'd been reading him like a book for years, anticipating before he has to say it. "It's chaos. Does this mean I'm forgiven for leaving the door open?"

His eyes narrow. After Deeks' shooting, they've all become more vigilant. He's opening his mouth to scold her when she lifts the ugliest looking macaroni-made ornament he's ever seen. Instead of asking her what the hell she'd been doing leaving the door open, he says, "What the hell is that?"

She flips it over with a frown. "I made it when I was four."

He finally pushes her front door shut and moves farther into the room. "You have the stuff you made as a kid?"

"Yeah," she shrugs, reaching into a box beside her. She pulls another out, this one a glittery ball of what he thinks might be painted marshmallows. "Jack had his own, so I haven't seen these in years. My dad kept everything."

Callen settles on the floor with her, reaching into the box. Together, they unwrap more than simple Christmas balls. There are nutcrackers, and puppies with antlers; stars and angels and even a photo frame with tiny Kensi at, apparently, age six.

In another box, there's a whole other time capsule. These though, are matching ornaments. Balls and elegant icicles, gauzy angels and sparkling stars. This is a theme tree, an older tree. He feels Kensi lean over his shoulder.

"That was my tree with Jack," she confirms, the words murmured in his ear. "His parents rotated through three different theme trees, so it was what he was used to."

He holds out one of the angels. "It's your tree. Do the honours?"

Because the intimacy and emotion rolling off of her makes her feel things. Not that he doesn't want to feel them, it's just – God. Complicated.

He reaches into his pocket and rubs his fingers over the star. It reminds him of the decision he'd made climbing the rock wall earlier in the evening, ten feet above the gym floor. A decision that will move them another step forward.

. . . . .

They come across them about half way through unwrapping the ornaments. An entire box of still-wrapped gifts. It actually makes him stop dead. They've created a pretty solid rhythm. He's been unwrapping the decorations while she's been finding the perfect branches.

"Kens?"

She looks up, humming stopping abruptly. Her eyes land on the box. "Oh."

She sounds surprised and she drops down beside him on her knees. She lifts the first gift almost reverently in her hands, running her fingers over the trailing ribbons. Callen waits. He's patient. He can be absolutely still and he can definitely wait her out.

Sure enough, she blows out a breath. It's heavy enough that he says, "You don't-"

But there's determination in her eyes when she raises them to his. He knows that face. She flips the gift over in her hands, then again.

"Jack's family was in Montana," she begins, shifting to settle herself more comfortably on the floor. "We tried to go every year. He was always big on family."

She sucks in a breath. "When we got back, when the PTSD settled in, his mom and I agreed that maybe a plane wasn't the best plan. You know, confined spaces, unpredictable attacks and-" She shakes her head.

"The drive to Montana is too far, I wasn't going to be able to get the time off, it was chaotic… And all of Jack's doctors were here. It just did not makes sense. So they were going to come down around New Years'."

Callen feels her skin beneath his palm, realizes he's reached out for her. She drops a hand to squeeze his.

"Something was off. I knew it. I knew it when we went to bed. The next morning I woke up to a note on Jack's pillow and an empty apartment."

She's got tears in her eyes. He can see them and the brave way she holds them back. And maybe, he realizes, this is why he's been drawn to her from the beginning, why all of this emotion and intimacy has come out over the last eighteen days.

She has been through so much. So very much. She's strong, she's resilient, she has faith and heart and hope. There's darkness, sure, but it's not overshadowed. Sometimes, he is, and he finds himself unable to dwell on it when she's around.

"He said he just couldn't do it anymore. He hated that he was bringing me down, holding me back." She sucks in a shaky breath, weaving her fingers with his on her thigh. "I packed everything into boxes that Christmas Day and I haven't looked at them since."

"Which is explains why you have two sets of ornaments."

She smiles, just a little. He watches her, the way she bites at her lip, the nerves in her twitching fingers; so much emotion so close to the surface. He takes his biggest leap of faith.

Pulling his hand gently from hers, he reaches into his pocket. He's never been good with words, but he is good with actions and he can feel her eyes on him as he stands. There's no pattern to the tree. The ornaments are clumped all over the place. He reaches out for an empty branch.

"Callen?"

He offers her one of his odd, crooked smiles. "New memories, right?"

He sees the moment the significance sinks in.

Christmas.

Real Christmas.

Not the advent calendar, or some shared traditions but Christmas Day. His ornaments mixed with hers on a tree they picked out together.

A new Christmas morning.

Kensi bites her lip. Then, setting the present aside, heads for her own calendar. She hangs her identical star on the same branch, then wraps an arm around his waist, splaying her hand on his hip.

"New memories," she agrees against his jaw.

He tugs her in, looking at the absolute mess of a tree. Then he looks over at the box of gifts. "What about the old ones?"

There's a moment, then she grins. "I have the perfect place for them."

An hour later, she shoves him out the door with an address he doesn't recognize typed into his phone. Eleven in the morning, she'd said. Time to get rid of some old memories.

He can get behind that.


	19. December 19, 2012

_Maggie Hart has had hundreds of thousands of people come through her shelter. As someone who has been there, Maggie's always felt like she's uniquely equipped to run a shelter. She's seen so many different people come through. People who have been on the streets for days and some that have been on the streets for years. Some she feels have lost hope and others she knows still have so much potential._

_But the teenager sitting alone one December evening breaks her heart._

" _Sleeping rough?"_

_Her eyes are bloodshot, one brown, one black. How striking. "Go away."_

_But Maggie won't. She's got nerves of steel, always has. So instead, she sits and can virtually see the girl's hackles rise. "What's your name?"_

_Stubborn. A stubborn runaway teenager. Maggie hates those, though not for regular reasons. It's just sad that a child feels like home is so bleak that they run. "How long have you been a runway?"_

_This time, those unique eyes roll. "None of your business."_

" _Your parents?"_

_Her eyes go flat. Maggie does not need words to understand what that means. Not a runaway then. An orphan. "Leave me alone."_

" _No."_

_The blunt refusal takes the teenager off-guard. Completely. Maggie can see the way her fingers twitch, itching to flee._

" _Don't talk to me, that's fine, but I'm going to sit here, maybe just sit here, until you go to bed. Now then, eat up. You could do with some meat on your bones."_

_Bow the girl is beyond stunned. Maggie just sit back, waiting, patient. Even the tough nuts crack after a while. She's had a lot of practice._

" _Why?" the girl asks. "There are plenty of people here to focus on. Why me?"_

_Now Maggie leans in again. "The way I see it, there are three types of people on the streets. There are those that are, unfortunately, mentally ill. We can't fix it here, we can only help them for a little while. Then they move on. They can't help it. Then there's the hope suckers. They have a bleak outlook, negative about everything, ready to blame everyone but themselves for all of their problems. They suck all of the light out of a room._

" _Now you're sad, oh yes. Angry too. But not hopeless. Not hopeless and very, very young. So why you? Because you're part of that last group, the group that still believes in goodness, that still has faith and hope and a future ahead of them. You're hard, you're stron, you're a fighter, or my guess is you'd be making a pretty penny on a street corner right about now. This is LA. Pretty girl like you would be snatched up by a pimp in absolutely no time at all. You're not running either. There's not enough fear in you._

" _So, sweetheart, you've got all the potential to get off these streets. You've got all the potential to do something great. You shouldn't be here."_

_The teenager stays quiet and Maggie's not entirely sure it's stubbornness or shock. She reaches out. The girl doesn't jump._

" _I have a friend," she says on impulse. "Not from Hollywood. Not an agent or a pimp. A friend. Will you meet her?"_

_The girl says nothing._

_Maggie nods. "I'm going to call her. Tell her to come. If you're still sitting here when she arrives…"_

_The message is clear as Maggie stands and moves away._

_Then she hears, "Kensi."_

_The teenager is looking at her straight on, no defiance, no anger. Wariness, sure, but it's a weird softness._

" _Kensi," Maggie repeats. It feels like a big deal. A very big deal. "I'm Maggie."_

_Then she makes the call._

_Half an hour later, a tiny woman steps through the shelter doors. She looks entirely out of place as she weaves through the ratty groups of her 'customers'. "Maggie."_

" _Hetty," Maggie greets._

_It only takes Hetty a moment to spot Kensi across the room. Maggie follows, feeling oddly protective of the girl she'd only met maybe forty-five minutes ago, but there's something about Kensi that has Maggie's hackles up, even with Hetty. And she knows she's made the right choice when Kensi's eyes flick to Maggie first._

" _Kensi, this is Hetty."_

_Hetty holds out a hand. "Hello, Miss Blye."_

_By the end of the conversation, Hetty's left her business card with the teenager and Maggie's surprised to see a calm determination in her features. There's something out there for her now, Maggie realizes. She has a goal._

_Five years later, Maggie's serving soup in late December when a throat clears beside her. It takes Maggie a moment to recognize the now-grown woman standing next to her, a shy smile on her face._

" _Kensi!"_

_She blushes. Actually blushes. It makes Maggie grin. She looks even better, less broken. Then she smiles. "Got room for a volunteer?"_

* * *

Kensi's nervous. It's stupid really. There's nothing to be nervous about. She's volunteered here for years, a thank you to the woman and the place that completely changed the path of her life.

Granted, there are some differences to this particular trip.

She tends to come when they're working a bad case, for one thing and while the military's criminals haven't been absolutely silent by any means, they're not working anything particularly traumatizing at the moment. And then, of course, there's Callen. She can feel the heat of him at her back as they step through the shelter doors. They're weighed down by her old gifts and Kensi finds herself chewing the inside of her cheek, her adrenaline spiking. It feels like she's about to introduce Callen to her mother, though this time, it's the woman she chose rather than the woman who gave birth to her. This is more.

"Kensi!"

The smile blossoms over her face without effort. Maggie's almost always had that effect on her. It takes her longer than usual to reach Kensi, her old bones creaking but it feels oddly like coming home when Kensi's pressed against her, smelling cotton and powder.

When Maggie pulls back, she eyes Kensi critically, the same way she always does. Kensi stays still under the onslaught.

"Something's different," Maggie accuses. Callen shifts beside her, drawing Maggie's gaze. She turns her broad grin back to Kensi. "Oh."

Kensi feels the blush crawling up her cheeks. "Maggie, meet Callen. We work together."

"Do you now," Maggie murmurs, eyeing Callen. Her arm comes around Kensi's waist, an unmistakably protective gesture. "Do you keep my girl safe, Mister Callen?"

To his credit, Callen only smirks, but Kensi sees pride there, enough to make her breath back up in her lungs. "She doesn't need my help, ma'am."

Maggie grins. "Excellent answer." Then she claps her hands. "Let's get you two set up. Put those gifts under the tree and grab and apron. It's almost time for the lunch rush."

. . . . .

Kensi's arranging gifts beneath the sparsely decorated tree, looking for a donation fit for a seven-year-old girl when Maggie settles on a nearby chair.

"Those are not just random donations, Miss Kensi Marie."

Years later, and Maggie is still the one of very few people who can make Kensi feel down right guilty for keeping little things secret.

"They're yours."

Kensi only pauses a split second, but even she knows it's enough of a tell for Maggie.

"Have you told him?"

"Yeah," Kensi answers. She swallows. "Everything."

Maggie makes a surprised sound. "Is that why you brought them?"

"It's a motivation," Kensi admits, aware that it's just easier to answer truthfully. Her eyes find him, offering a worn-looking woman a smile and a steaming bowl of soup. "It's good. Whatever it is."

"Whatever it is?" Because even Maggie knows that Callen's mere presence speaks volumes, if not everything Kensi's told him.

Kensi smiles reflexively. "We're- Making new memories."

"And falling in love along the way."

Kensi stiffens. "Maggie-"

Maggie waves away all of Kensi's prepared excuses. "Now is not the time to debate semantics. It's good."

Kensi huffs. She can't argue. It's a waste of breath.

"You're happy, Kensi. I can see it. Steady."

"You think it's him."

Maggie laughs. "When you were here, a month ago, after you found your father's killer, you still-" She hums, searching for the right word. "It didn't seem like finding him was as satisfying to you as you'd expected."

Kensi finds herself biting her lip.

"Now-"

She doesn't finish. She doesn't have to. Kensi knows that finding her father's murderer certainly hadn't been satisfying. Even reconciling with her mother hadn't helped make her feel better. So many years, but closure hadn't felt like relief.

She does like spending time with Callen. She definitely enjoys the newly added physicality, but she's spent so much time reminding herself that it's just a thing. She's been trying to remind herself that neither of them have made anything serious out of this.

"Kensi."

She looks up at Maggie.

"Don't fuss. I'm glad you're happy. I-I am very happy you're happy and that you've finally found someone to share your dark corners with again." Her eyes are serious. "Don't let worry and fear ruin the good things."

She can't promise. She can't. There are so many worries, so much fear. It doesn't mean that any of the fears aren't well-founded. Maggie doesn't make her promise, either, because she knows too.

Instead, she smiles. "Try the Princess-wrapped one. I'd bet that gift will fit your little girl perfectly."

. . . . .

After cornering Kensi, Maggie has one more mission. As much as Kensi looks at her as a maternal figure, Kensi is a daughter to Maggie and, as a maternal figure, she feels like it is her duty to step up. She gets her chance in the lull after the lunch rush. She's standing beside Callen at what she' has always affectionately called the 'Buffet Table'. There's no one in line, and no one around.

"I met Kensi at that table over there."

Callen's eyes follow the point of her ladle, but he says nothing.

"She was on the streets."

Again, Maggie gets no response, not even a flicker of surprise. He's good, she thinks, and she wonders how he learned about Kensi's time on the streets.

"She as young and stubborn and lost. But she wasn't hopeless."

There's a flicker, a little twitch of a smirk. He knows then, very well, that Kensi is no wilting flower.

"Mister Callen, that is my girl. She has been through too much. So if you are not serious about her, if this is just a game to you, or a test, then walk away. She's been through enough broken hearts."

Then she nods and returns to the soup.

It's a few minutes before he says, "Ma'am, I don't want to break Kensi's heart."

Maggie looks up, watching him and because she's searching fo it, she sees the darkness hiding there. It's a familiar look. She sees it in Kensi's eyes when she usually shows up to volunteer.

"Never Kensi."

Which, she knows, speaks volumes. He's been quiet. Friendly enough, but quiet. Not the type to share much. Except Maggie has a feeling that if Kensi's sharing with him, he's doing the same for her. Kensi's just like that.

"She's something special," Maggie finds herself agreeing, eyes straying to Kensi, seated across the room, listening intensely to a rag-dressed man.

"I can't promise-"

"I'm not asking you to," she interrupts. "I'm asking you to try."

She's asking him to make a decision.

"We're spending Christmas together."

Apparently, there's no decision to make. Maggie smiles. "She's happy, Mister Callen. It's all I can ever ask for."

From the look in his eyes when they meet hers again, he feels very much the same.


	20. December 20, 2012

_He meets her during a takedown._

_Well, extraction is probably a better term. Andrew Ho isn't a terrorist but he followed the clichéd path of getting involved with the 'wrong' people and now NCIS needs those connections. So, they're essentially stealing him in the middle of the night._

_He and Sam split up. They're the senior agents and this is his case, their case, so they're team leaders. He doesn't normally pay attention to the rookie agents they often bring in for these, but when she sidles up behind him, he looks._

_Then looks again._

" _Blye," she says, ponytail swinging. "Good?"_

" _Yeah," he murmurs back, unsure of why his heart literally skipped a beat. He tells himself the quick once over he gives her is all business, checking if her equipment is good. And he definitely does not take notice of the figure under all of the black. He meets her eyes, then turns to the lock on the back door. Silent entry. She nods once, then pulls a kit from her pocket._

_He admires women who come prepared, and he does also admire the way she makes simple work of the lock._

_They slip inside soundlessly. He's impressed actually, at the fluid grace in her every movement. She's quick and efficient and doesn't once knock over a cabinet full of good china. She stays with him, a calm and steady presence at his back._

_They meet Sam and his terrified-looking rookie at the staircase. He'll go up, where Andrew's probably asleep. They hadn't let him in on this little plan. It works better that way. Plus, Blye's calmer, more confident and he just feels like it'll be a simple in-and-out kind of thing with her. Less of a risk of screwing things up. Sam's jittery partner is just making him nervous._

_Sure enough, that calm settles over him the minute he starts climbing the stairs with her behind. The moment they hit the top of the stairs, the feeling hits him. Something is not right. He slows. So does she. He can't hear her breathing, even though his heart is pumping and he's pretty sure hers is jack-rabbiting. He looks back. Her face is absolutely grim. He hides his grin by turning back forward. She's already damn impressive._

_The first two rooms are empty. Three bedrooms, two bathrooms on the top floor, so he's not surprised. Furniture, but no people, not that their intel says Ho keeps roommates. Either way, it's good. They don't need witnesses. There's a bathroom, then the master._

_And what they find in the master does not bode well._

_Ho's not in good shape. He's been beaten. Badly. And there's a seriously bleeding wound in the vicinity of his kidney. Callen releases an absolutely blistering string of profanities that would make even the most seasoned sailors and agents blush. Blye merely wings an eyebrow._

" _Towels." He doesn't need to ask twice. She's half way across the room by the time he turns to check, that damn ponytail swinging again. It's too bad she carries a gun._

_He presses his fingers to Ho's neck, finding a pulse that's thready but there. He leans into his vest, where his mic is stashed. "Mace, we're going to need a bus."_

" _No you won't."_

_He freezes. There's a gun at the back of his head._

" _So you are the cop he's been speaking to."_

_He stays still. Absolutely still. This should not be happening. He does not get caught off-guard. Ever. Macy's going to kill him for this. So is Sam. Just yesterday the ex-SEAL had been ranting about how hard it is to train a good partner these days. And Pretty Blye with her bouncing ponytail certainly does not need to see him summarily executed, even if she absolutely had not flinched at his sailor language._

" _Ho is a traitor."_

_Right. Guy with gun. His mind spins with possibilities, exit strategies, even as his hands come up slowly. He's fast, sure. But that's a gun._

" _He knew nothing."_

" _Ho?" he asks, even though he doesn't have to. It settles him to keep Gunman talking. Buy time. He can do that. He's done it before. Just until back up can come. God, he hopes Blye isn't that far and isn't clumsy enough to screw this up. He hates putting his trust in rookies._

" _He cannot help you."_

_Year right._

" _Though. It does not matter now. You will meet the same fate."_

_He hears the safety click, then a sickening crunch and a thud. His head swivels and Blye's standing over a Middle-Eastern man, her nose wrinkled. He refuses to find it adorable._

" _I hate it when bad guys talk in clichés." She turns on her heel and strides out; returns with the towels two seconds later._

_The next morning, she's sitting in his chair when he and Sam make it into their broom closet of an office, a grin over her face, foot bouncing away._

" _Special Agent Kensi Blye," she says, her mouth stretched into a wide grin, her eyes sparkling. "Your new teammate."_

* * *

He doesn't get home until late. Or early. As an insomniac, it's a moot point. It's always late and it's always early.

And his mind is always spinning.

For once, it's not about the job. It's not paranoia. He's not double-checking all the locks on his doors. He's not cleaning his gun, running over all of the plans. He's not doing research, practicing his Arabic or learning some new technique. He's not haunting OSP's gym.

Maggie Hart, he thinks, is quite the woman. He's known her under twelve hours and he can already tell she's formidable. In fact, Maggie reminds him in less terrifying ways, of Hetty. It actually makes Kensi's decision to introduce him all the more significant.

His feet slap against the pavement as he runs, not really caring where he's going. He hadn't been able to stay at home. He doesn't like being unsettled. The significance and then the nerves in Kensi on their drive back to her place. She'd been shakey, jittery. She'd jumped when he'd rested his hand on her arm and his question around a cup of coffee had died in his throat. Instead, he'd said a shockingly awkward goodnight and fled.

And now he cannot settle.

It's different to not sleeping, he thinks, trying to let the pattern of his footfalls soothe him. This is discomfort, like something that he's used to having isn't there. It itches under his skin almost as bad as the Chameleon had, all those months ago.

He doesn't like Kensi unsettled.

He'd sensed for a while that he and Kensi have been headed towards making some more life-changing decisions. It's an interesting place to be, he thinks. The last twenty days have turned everything he knows with an about Kensi on the head. It's surreal.

He's admired Kensi for years. He's always like her too, treated her with warmth and respect. Hazed her, sure, but looked out for her. He'd never though it was any different than, for example, Reinko. Okay, yeah, he's hugged her more in the past year than anyone in his whole life – these full-bodied things where he can definitely feel her fingers digging into his back – but it's Kensi. She's different.

Apparently, he never realized how different.

He wonders if maybe it's just that they've never spent time alone together. They've never tried. In fact, he's pretty sure they've avoided it. Maybe not deliberately but he's never really felt like he could invite himself along like he does with Sam. Sure, he'd never do it with Nell either, but it just feels different.

Now that they're spending time together, thinks are surfacing. He touches her now, little brushes here and there. Nothing over. Everything's little. Except, of course, the kissing. They haven't done more, which surprises him. Kensi's always said she's a first date kind of girl, not that he's making an assumption. It's just that they've definitely been on more than one 'date' now, and he's not expecting anything, he just knows that it's out of the ordinary for her.

It makes him stop dead in the middle of the road. They've been dating. Going on dates. At least, since the Mistletoe Kiss. At least by traditional definition, he thinks. Their thing includes dates and kissing and he is actually surprised to realize that he does not want it to change. At all.

It's a scary thought for such a nomadic man. He's thinking about permanence, about always having her there. Except, Kensi's different. She has roots in LA: things, people, favourite coffee shops and stretches of California beach. But she's an undercover agent. He wonders if it's enough to satisfy her wanderlust. And if it could be enough for him too.

He huffs a little, hands pausing on his hips before he shakes his head and starts running again. It's a huff of realization, really, that maybe he's been fighting it so long that he's forgotten it's even possible. Possible to satisfy his constant need for movement, but with a necessity for a place and a person to call home. Which shouldn't come as the shock it does. He owns a house. He has roots.

And he's shared with Kensi. A lot. About his foster homes, the Christmases he remembers. Recipes and skills he holds near and dear to his heart. She's already wormed her way in and considering how often she's now on his mind, it certainly seems like she's carved herself a comfortable place in there too. He's comfortable with her and maybe, he thinks, that's why their hours at the shelter had just felt easy.

The urge to go back to her hits him hard and he almost loses his footing in the pattern of his run. He wants to make sure she's okay, he realizes, that they're okay. He wants her to know that he understands the significance of everything and he likes it; he wants it.

Except he doesn't know how to say it.

The thought haunts him the whole run home and bounces in his skull as he showers. He tosses and turns as he brainstorms ideas before he drags himself from bed.

It doesn't hit him until he's waiting in line for his first caffeine fix and his hurricane mind lands on Kensi's face the day they'd gone hunting for a Christmas tree. And the pleased shock that had slid over her face when she realized he'd brought one for her too.

"Actually," he speaks up. "Make that two."

. . . . .

"Man, it's an atrocity."

"It's tradition."

"In Hawaii maybe."

Kensi rolls her eyes as Sam and Deeks bicker over her head. She actually likes the Christmas palm that dominates the center of the hacienda. She likes it a lot.

"It's our tradition, right Kensi?"

She hums her agreement, reaching out to straighten one of the gifts at the bottom. They're fake, but 'tis the season, after all. It makes her smile, despite the unease that still churns her stomach.

She had not slept well. She'd tossed and turned and barely dozed. She's pretty sure she knows why. She's not entirely sure Callen recognized the significance of bringing him to the shelter and introducing him to Maggie. He certainly hadn't said anything and seemed anxious to leave her apartment after he'd followed her back.

It made her nervous.

Thankfully, Sam and Deeks are much too busy debating the potential blasphemy of a Christmas palm to notice her discomfort.

"How do you even decorate it? There's nowhere to hang ornaments," Deeks argues.

"It is decorated," Sam retorts. "You blind? Shaggy hair getting in your eyes again? It's a wonder you see anything."

"Decorated? No way. You can't slap a bunch of lights on some foliage and declare it decorated for Christmas."

She just hopes that she's not supposed to keep pretending that nothing significant is going on here. She's pretty sure, at least before yesterday, that they'd moved past the 'thing' and their light, flexible 'moving forward'. At least, that's what Kensi had assumed had been Callen's symbolic gesture when he'd hung his advent calendar ornament on the tree in her apartment. The tree he picked out. The tree she considers theirs.

She's not looking for declarations. They're not his style and realistically, they're not hers either. It's why she's read so much into his – admittedly very deliberate – hanging of his ornament. A gesture.

And he hasn't freaked out when he'd open the time capsule box of gifts.

"Fake gifts? How are we supposed to tell them apart from the real ones?" Deeks needles.

"It doesn't matter. We recycle here. Bertha here's three years old."

"We're even recycling the Christmas palm? You have a fake one at home too, don't you. Your daughter decorates a fake Christmas tree every year."

"She's allergic to pines."

God, it's annoying. She'd gone into this thing with Callen with the intent of letting it all move easy. Nothing complicated. Christmas traditions, new and renewed.

But she hasn't spent a lot of time with Callen before this. Just Callen. She's always had a soft spot for him. She does know she's always been more attuned to him. She anticipates his needs before he needs to verbalize them and ensures she trains hard enough that he can rely on her completely.

So maybe it's self-preservation that's kept her from inviting him out with her. Just her. And now, now that they are spending time alone, the softs pot has intensified grown. Now, they're kissing, and cuddling and sharing personal things she's told no one since Jack. Now she cares about the fact that he'd rushed out on her and he's still not in.

She's going to give herself an ulcer.

"How can you even say she gets a real Christmas?"

"Deeks, we celebrate three different holidays in December. Christmas is just another blip on her radar."

"Wasn't it last year that Eric had to save your ass finding you that pony she wanted?"

"How long have they been at it?"

Kensi jumps at Callen's voice in her ear. The gift she's been absently fiddling with crashes to the floor. "Um. A while."

She curses the stutter and the nerves, her eyes dancing away. When they return he cocks his head back towards their desks. She chews her lip as she follows him. God, at this rate he's going to be responsible for bringing all of her tells back to the surface.

He slides into his seat and she follows his lead. She completely misses the two cups on his blotter until he reaches over and hands one to her. Like the cup he'd given her the day they're found their Christmas tree, it's doctored perfectly. She takes her first sip, letting her eyes flutter closed.

When they open again, they meet his. "You brought me coffee."

His gaze flickers to check on Deeks and Sam, still bickering and oblivious to them. "Maggie told me about how you met."

Kensi swallows. Not the best time in her life.

"Kens," he says, eyes serious. "I get it. I have nothing of that caliber to give back, but I get it. And I appreciate it. Immensely."

She is stunned. It's the opposite of what she expected, if she's honest. "I wanted you to stay," she blurts in her surprise. "After."

"I wanted to stay," he admits with a low chuckle.

Her mouth opens, then snaps closed as the sheer magnitude of the miscommunication hits her. "Oh."

"Yeah"

She takes another leap when she says. "I almost called."

"I almost ran to your place."

Everything, all the nerves and worries settle as the grin stretches across her face. They are on the same page.

"Should we try again?"

Now he's grinning too. "Tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow."


	21. December 21, 2012

He shows up at her apartment. They haven’t made actual plans, not since their discussion last night and he hasn’t made any plans independently of her. If he’s honest, he’s unsure. They’re on the same page, he knows that much. There’s no more ‘simplicity’, it’s no longer about ‘no pressure’. Not that there is pressure per se just – forward.

Together.

Her smile is absolutely brilliant when she pulls open the door. He’s surprised there’s no fear, not even in the back of her gaze and she looks all the better for it. All the more beautiful. It’s refreshing and silences the little voices in the back of his mind still whispering that she can do better, that he doesn’t deserve her.

“Hey.”

He arches an eyebrow at that scintillating opener. “Hi.”

She laughs a little, then steps back. He takes the invitation. He doesn’t realize he’s reaching for her until his hand is already gripping her hip, pulling her in. She comes willingly, even eagerly, tilting her head for his kiss. A kiss he gives willingly.

“Okay,” she says when she pulls away. Her chest is heaving and her lips are swollen. “So I have to wrap.”

His eyebrow wings up again. His hands are moving too, sliding beneath the tshirt she wears. Her skin is warm beneath the rough pads of his fingers. She arches, just a little, and he wants to grin. Now that he knows – _they_ know – he can enjoy just how damn responsive she is. He’s never noticed before.

He’s noticing now.

“Okay,” she repeats, eyes glazing. They’re dark when they meet his, dark and bottomless. “Seriously. Wrapping.”

Except he’s having fun. This is new, this power he seems to hold over her. Or, again, maybe it’s just something he hasn’t noticed before. He doesn’t really care. “I can’t wrap.”

She snorts. “Everyone can wrap. It’s a fundamental life skill.”

His fingers have wrapped around her hips again, thumbs against her hipbones. He has a new and growing affection for low-rise jeans as he rubs tiny circles over her skin. “I missed that day. Might have been too busy pulling apart a sniper rifle.”

Kensi makes a noise, a weird laugh-groan thing, but leans in again. Her kiss is aggressive and his fingers tighten where they’re gripping her hips. She hums when she releases his mouth, stepping back deliberately. “Why did we wait so long for that?”

He just laughs, a choked sound, but she’s already turned back to her mess of a living room. It’s a big of déjà vu, actually. He’s flashing back to the chaos of decorating her tree. Their tree, he immediately corrects when his eyes drift over the two little stars, sharing a branch.

“There’s so many,” he says, unable to stop his hand reaching out for her. He gets her tshirt, her back, her hip as she shifts. He cannot seem to stop touching her. It’s a new heady feeling, the pull and draw of having her near. It’s not a surprise, per se, but with how long they’ve worked together, he’s a little stunned that it hasn’t come up. That the pull hasn’t made him collapse long before now. It just feels simple.

“I know,” she’s blushing. “I kind of went overboard with the presents. First Christmas.”

“And now you have to wrap them all.”

She sends him a sly look, one that clenches in his stomach. It’s a pleasant clench. “Not by myself.”

He laughs, he can’t help it, and slides his fingers between hers when she reaches for his hand. She sits close, knee against his. Two boxes are already wrapped, one a dark green and one a bright shimmering red. Happy Christmas colours. They make him smile as he reaches for one.

Only to get his hand slapped away.

His eyes light up. It’s the most childish looks he’s ever seen on his face. “You’re my Secret Santa.”

“Because I won’t let you shake the presents I’ve so carefully wrapped?” She rolls her eyes, but he can see it, just a touch of mischief in the back of her gaze. He cannot stop grinning. She’s totally his Secret Santa. “Maybe they’re just fragile.”

No. He knows. He can tell. He can definitely tell. He knows his smirk gives him away. Completely. She’s turned back to meticulously cutting paper, but she glances up, flushing when she meets his gaze. “Shut up.”

He cannot help it and he leans over to smack a kiss to her head. Her flush deepens and he can feel the heat infusing his own face. Because they don’t do this. They are not adorable or domestic, not by nature and not without need. They are Excellent First Daters, the type who go out with the knowledge that if there’s an itch to scratch, they can find someone to help without attachment. They can become anyone in the blink of an eye, anyone they want to be or anyone someone else wants them to be. Except, that skill, that shape-shifter ability, is not necessary here. It may even be unwelcome.

There is nothing pretend about the way he wants to touch her, the humming beneath his skin for the feel of hers. There’s nothing fake about the pleasure he gets from the surprised spark in her eyes whenever her brushes against her, accidentally or on purpose. And he definitely does both.

At first, it is entirely accidental. He hadn’t been lying when he’d told her he’d never wrapped a present in his life. He lives in LA, there’s always someone to wrap a gift for him. She tries to teach him at first, but it seems to be the one thing he just cannot seem to get. Her folds are crisp, precise and his are a wrinkled mess. The only thing that keeps him from getting frustrated is the quiet laugh she releases at the stubborn look on his face and the gentle touch of her hands as she removes the present from his grip to fix it herself. Not that Eric is going to care about a few wrinkled folds.

Eventually, she just hands him the scissors with the shyest smile he’s ever seen on her face. They develop a rhythm after that. He cuts with military precision as she wraps. And every once in a while, he leans over her, or around her, to help with tape or ribbons. He brushes against her when he does. Her arm, her back, her thigh, her hip. If asked, he knows he wouldn’t be able to say whether they were genuinely accidental or about that damn itch and this need to touch.

Kensi doesn’t seem to mind in the slightest. Her knee stays pressed against his and she’s even leaning into some of the brushes of his hand or arm. She rests her hand on his thigh to get his attention, knocks her shoulder against his just because. It’s heady as the anticipation builds and he’s utterly vibrating by the time she tucks the last meticulously wrapped gift beneath the tree.

Then he’s reaching for her. She comes willingly, moving into him as her mouth crashes into his. Her arms come around his neck and his wrap tightly around her waist.

They explode.

He stumbles as he backs up, over scissors, tape, wrapping, and lands with a pretty undignified ‘oof’ on her couch. She giggles – a freaking _giggle_ , like she’s a school girl – but he cuts her off as he drags her in. She has no choice but to straddle his lap, to move into him, and he splays one hand at the bottom of her spine to keep her there. Not that she’s really moving. Not at all. The opposite. She relaxes against his body, mouth meeting hers in a clash of lips and tongues that has his free hand clenching around the elastic of her ponytail.

She releases a squeak as he tugs, angling her head. He must do something right because her fingers dig into his shoulders and he feels the way her thighs tense beneath his palms. He slides them up the denim, fingers gripping. Her hips push down and his hands shoot to her hips to keep her there. Hers scrabble down his chest until she can grip the edges of his t-shirt. It’s over his head before he can blink and with his mouth free from hers he can see her face, the heat in her eyes.

He does that to her.

He doesn’t even remember reaching for her shirt. What he does know is that she’s naked to the waist and while he’s seen her half-naked before – sports bras, work outs, hell even her bikini costumes as federal agents – but never like this. Never on his lap with an absolutely beautiful flush spreading over her collar bones.

The itch is back, his fingers twitching, brushing against her waist, her stomach. They slide to her back, up her spine until he’s got the back of her neck.

“Kens.”

Her forehead drops and lands against his. They’re huffing, puffing. Everything stops, slows, and her hands slide gently down his chest. She sucks in a breath. “Okay.”

He holds her close when she tries to push back.

“Callen,” she whispers, pressing her forehead against his again. Her eyes flutter closed, her hands cup his face. “Callen, we can’t.”

“Kens.”

She lets him press his lips to hers but she holds his face.

“No,” she murmurs against his mouth. It comes out without malice, gentle. “I’m saying no.”

His hands tighten once, then release her completely, his head dropping back. He expects her to move off of him, to pick up her shirt and move away. Instead, she makes a whimpering noise and grasps his hands.

“Okay, no, Callen.” She makes a huffing noise. “I just – Sex complicates things.”

He blinks at her, not entirely sure. As serial daters, pros at the one night stand, he’s not entirely sure what she means.

She sighs, sensing or maybe sensing his frustration and confusion. “Sex – Look, everything is still new and – and complicated. We still work together, we’ve _just_ –“

Oh. He’s starting to get it.

“It – Those are already enough complications without adding sex to the mix.” She shifts again, pressing against him. “Because it’s definitely not that I don’t _want_ to.”

His hands come back to her hips, the bare skin of her back. He’s shocked by her decision, if he’s honest, but he can’t deny the thrill, even if he should. Because it tells him this is important to her, they are important to her, and she doesn’t want to risk it by adding sex to the equation. Yet.

And he wants it to work too.

He leans forward, pressing his mouth almost gently to hers. It’s a careful kiss, slow and languid and he cannot help the dark thrill that races through him when she melts against him. It takes the entirety of his self-control to keep his hands still. From the way her fingers clench and release on his shoulders, against his skull, it’s not easy for her either.

The kiss comes to a natural end and she releases a sigh that sends a warm spike of contentment through his chest. Her eyes flutter open and she smiles.

“Charlie Brown Christmas is on,” she murmurs. “Stay?”

He ignores the nervous tremor in her voice, and picks up her t-shirt. “Put this on first.”

Her responding smile is blinding. 


	22. December 22, 2012

_It’s Christmas morning. He’s been up for hours, if he’s honest, but it’s the laughter that finally jolts him. It’s his youngest foster sister and she’s been excited, loud. It’s a happier home than he’s ever been to._

_Laura is bright and happy, She’s five and he’d long ago figured out that there’s nothing actually ‘foster’ about her. She’s a surprise biological daughter of those he’s currently calling parents. He likes them. He likes all of them. But he hasn’t stayed long at any of the foster homes, so he’s trying hard not to get attached. It’s too bad Laura doesn’t seem to get that._

_And the privacy of a closed door certainly doesn’t seem to stop her either._

_“G! It’s Christmas!”_

_He buries his head back into his pillows, biding his time. One of Laura’s favourite games is to startle the teenagers awake when they’re trying to sleep in._

_“Christmas!”_

_He grins, tasting cotton. It is a comfortable bed, but even that can’t seem to help his insomnia._

_“G!” She’s whining now. He knows these steps. Whining, then jumping. He needs the jumping._

_He feels her climb onto the bed. He waits. He’s patient. He always has been. He can easily and definitely wait out a five-year-old. He feels her steady her tiny feet on either side of his body._

_Then he attacks._

_Laura squeals, a loud happy sound as he yanks her tiny body down and rolls it beneath him. He starts tickling in earnest and her body jerks and writhes beneath his, His own chuckles spill over. She has that effect on people. Eventually, she yells for mercy and he drops beside her._

_“No. G, no. There’s presents.”_

_“It’s Christmas, Laur. Presents are kind of mandatory.”_

_She rolls her eyes. It’s a shock to see her do it. She’s too young to have attitude and he crawls his fingers up her side. It makes her giggle. She flips to her stomach, dropping her head to his chest. His eyes slam shut. Who is he kidding? He’s already attached._

_There’s a knock on the doorframe that catches their attention._

_“You coming?” Portia asks, moody as all anything._

_He rolls his eyes – and gets a shocking glimpse as to where Laura may have gotten it from – then yanks himself from bed. He gets Laura’s ankle on the way up until he can lift her into his arms. When they make it to the living room, the whole ‘family’ is there. There’s seven of them in total, and they’re spread over every available surface. Even Portia finds a place to sit._

_They don’t actually get presents. As a teen, he’s a little more aware of the financial strains the family’s under with five kids. It doesn’t matter though. They’ve done what they can. Each child has a stocking. Packed tight._

_It takes them an hour to get through it all, but they all end up with a small pile of gifts. It’s so pleasant and content that he doesn’t even argue when Laura loops her cheap feather boa around his neck. It’s bright pink, stereotypical, but he doesn’t care. Laura’s grinning and laughing and there’s general holiday cheer._

_It’s a good Christmas._

* * *

 

OSP does Secret Santa different than most. They don’t sit around in a happy family circle. On the contrary, like everything else they tend to do as undercover agents, they make it into a game of skill.

It starts with Deeks, ripping into a holly-patterned package in the bullpen following their morning briefing. He’s like a kid as he tears the paper and breaks the tape on the box. It’s a smile that falls off his face, however, the minute he starts pulling everything out of that box. It turns out, it’s a desert survival kit.

Kensi’s in stitches before he pulls everything from the box.

Eric’s next, and he comes racing down the stairs with the latest edition of a first person shooter game, gleefully showing it to Deeks. Kensi rolls her eyes at the childishness this time, glancing up the stairs and finding Nell looking on with an almost-disturbing affection on her face. When the petite woman meets Kensi’s gaze there’s a little blush that spreads across the analyst’s face.

The next gift, it turns out, is Nell’s. Kensi’s there for it, both women having just returned from lunch. Kensi’s the one that catches sight of the snowflake-embossed paper and she grins as she heads over to it. She’s been a bit anxious to know what on earth Deeks managed to find for Nell.

Nell grins unrepentantly as she lifts the box. Like Kensi, Nell’s not a shaker and instead, she runs her fingers along the edges.

“Nell,” Kensi prompts. She wants to see.

Nell’s blushing though and it kind of takes Kensi off-guard. There’s no reason for Nell to be blushing with Deeks as her Secret Santa. Not when she has a Thing with Eric.

“What aren’t you telling me?”

Instead, Nell glances around. Ops is empty, a rarity, but not unheard of. There are plenty of other places that analysts do their work around the rather massive OSP HQ. So Nell slips her fingers carefully and delicately under the tape keeping her gift hidden until she can pull it away in one piece. The box inside is plain, much like Deeks’ and Kensi finds her heart sinking. She’d been hoping for something infinitely more creative.

But Nell breathes out heavily and Kensi’s even more sure she’s missing something. In fact, Nell’s fingers are shaking as she slides them into the flap keeping the box closed. What she withdraws is exactly not what Kensi’s anticipating.

It’s a ball. A Christmas ball. It’s glass, she thinks, clear, anyway, and she can make out something inside. Nell holds it up. It’s a picture, she realizes, a picture of them. A picture of the team. It’s from the previous year, she thinks, in front of Bertha the Palm. They look happy and rosy-cheeked, probably more than a little intoxicated but from the entirely mushy look on Nell’s face, it doesn’t matter.

“Nell?” Kensi prompts quietly again.

“Eric and Deeks switched names,” she says and shakes her head when Kensi quite obviously goes to ask the clear follow up question. “Eric and I were talking, you know, back and forth here and I didn’t realize until after everything I’d told him.”

“Everything you’d told him,” Kensi echoes dubiously.

Nell nods. “Like that my parents have sent me a photo ornament every year. It’s not usually big, actually because my family’s so big the picture turns out totally tiny, but it’s something since I can’t get back and see them anymore. Since I don’t really see them anymore.”

They all work. Constantly. Even Sam, who is really the only one of them with real family that he sees regularly. Kensi’s been trying with Julia, but even she knows that it’s not the same. “And you told Eric?”

Of all the people Kensi expects Nell to spill too, hilariously Eric isn’t the first person she’d think of. Nell is almost especially tight-lipped around him, maybe, Kensi’s starting to think, because she has this blurting habit.

“It’s like surfer voodoo. There were elf costumes and mistletoe kisses and then non-mistletoe kisses and-“

“You’ve been holding out on me!”

Nell’s eyes widen. “No. Kensi, no, it’s not-“

“Non-mistletoe kisses?”

“No, stop,” Nell says. “It’s not- It’s not a Thing. You and Callen have a Thing.”

“Yes,” Kensi replies, dragging out the word. There’s no use in denying it, for one thing, and for another, it feels damn good to say. She and Callen have a Thing. A Good Thing.

“Eric and I don’t have a Thing. Capital or lower case.”

She’s inches from making a Shakespeare reference, knows that if Deeks were beside her, that’s exactly what he’d do. Nell is in denial, serious, full-on-protesting denial. “Hence the non-mistletoe kisses.”

“Exactly.” Her eyes widen. “Wait, no.”

Oh. Oh this is good.

“You and Callen have a Thing,” Nell says again. “A Christmas thing. With mistletoe kisses.”

Kensi blushes. She hadn’t thought anyone had been privy to that. When she and Nell had first talked about the Thing she has with Callen, Kensi had just assumed her friend had seen something. It wouldn’t be far from the truth, the way Nell is shockingly and terrifyingly good with people.

“Eric and I don’t have a Thing. A mistletoe kiss, yes, maybe some lapses in judgment but not-“

“Why not?”

Nell blinks. “What?”

“Why not have a thing with Eric? Weren’t you just encouraging me to take a chance on my Really Good Thing, by the way, with Callen?”

“It’s not the same.”

“Um, what?”

“I- It’s different.”

Kensi looks significantly to the ornament that’s still spinning, reflecting some interesting patterns onto the floor. “Don’t think so.”

“It’s just a present.”

“A really good present,” Kensi retorts. “A really good, really thoughtful present.” She even reaches for it and Nell turns it over easily. “Nell, this is us.”

The analyst turns redder. “Yeah. That’s the other thing.”

“Other thing?”

Nell looks away, tucks the ornament back into the box after she gets it back from Kensi’s reverent fingers. “I don’t get to see my family. Which is why I take Christmas with you guys so seriously.”

It doesn’t take a genius to fill in all the blanks. They are Nell’s family, the only family she has. But it inexplicably sticks with her well through Sam’s discovery of a very expensive gift card to an exclusive LA restaurant and an afternoon of extremely boring paperwork. It isn’t until much later in the afternoon – she is _very_ distracted by Nell’s little bombshell as well as the little hiccup of her and Eric and their Thing – that she realizes she hasn’t seen Callen all day.

Granted, it’s not really new. Hell, it’s not even new for the last month. It does put her back up, a little. It has historically meant that there’s something afoot.

Sure enough, her phone chimes half an hour before she’s set to log off.

_Upstairs. Past ops. Sixth door on the left._

It’s Callen’s number, so she really doesn’t think much of it. Instead, she grabs the envelope she’s been hiding in her bag – neither of the boxes he’d shaken when they’d wrapped presents had been his, she’d made sure of that – and follows the directions she’s given. It’s a closed room, abandoned. The hacienda is _massive_ so there are plenty of empty rooms and abandoned corridors. She knocks, maybe out of habit, before she pushes open the door.

And walks into a veritable winter wonderland.

She gasps as she looks around, steps further in. She misses the string tied maybe six inches above the floor but she’s so deep in wonder that she’s moving too slow for it to trip her. What it does do is tips a bucket over her head. A bucket of fake snow. She’s laughing before she realizes it, kicking at the stuff and watching it settle over the trees and makeshift nature that’s been moved into the room.

“Good present?”

She spins to find Callen leaning against the doorframe, a soft look in his eyes she never sees. “It’s- Callen, what did you do?”

“Called in a couple of favours,” he says.

“A couple of favours? You made it snow. In LA.” She is absolutely flabbergasted.

Now he looks anxious. Not nervous, but definitely like there’s something he’s more than embarrassed to admit. “I made you a promise.”

“A promise?” Her voice is utterly breathless. “What promise?”

“Your snow memory,” he says, stepping into the room. He closes the door behind him, locks it too.

She searches her brain. She’s been searing plenty of what they’ve been doing into her memory, but she’s coming up empty handed. She must look as confused as she feels because he steps towards her again, reaching out to shake some of the fake flakes from her hair.

“You got engaged to Jack in the snow.”

She’s surprised by two things simultaneously: the easy way he says it, and the lack of stabbing pain when she hears it. Okay, three things, because she sure as hell didn’t expect that to come out of his mouth. And it does hurt, of course, as Jack-related things are wont to do, but it doesn’t make her double over. Instead, she merely blinks as his fingers brush over the shell of her ear.

“So you brought me snow?”

He shrugs again, and gone is the tenderness now. His eyes are shuttered again. “You had a bad memory. Didn’t we start all of this to make new memories? Good memories?”

She jumps to reassure him, even as her heart leaps at the implication. “It’s- Callen, I don’t- I can’t-“ She huffs, frustrated with her inability to find the words. “My present feels so-“

“You _are_ my Secret Santa.”

She laughs, the ice cracked, though not broken. There are still a million things, a million emotions stuck in her throat.

He gave her _snow_.

She feels entirely inadequate as she reaches into her bag and withdraws the green envelope.

“Not a box.” He shakes the envelope anyway and makes her laugh again. He reaches inside and extracts his gift, his mouth splitting into a wide grin as he reads them. “Tickets! Lakers and Clippers.”

“You and Sam,” she says, because she doesn’t for an instant think he’d want to take her. She can’t say she’s the biggest basketball fan anyway.

“Good tickets.”

She blushes and reaches out without her conscious permission, picking at the sleeve of the t-shirt he wears. “You gave me snow.”

There aren’t words, not for this. A bad memory made good when she sure as hell could not have believed it possible. They’re in LA, and he still made it snow.

So she reaches over and she kisses him, slow and long and deep and totally not caring that they’re still in OSP. The door is locked and he gave her _snow_. More than that, he gave her a good memory.

Again. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TUMBLR AND TWITTER FOLLOWERS  
> You got a missing scene earlier this afternoon via Tumblr. Goes between last chapter and where this one picks up. Enjoy!


	23. December 23, 2012

_He gets invited to a Christmas party as a teenager. He's not sure what has him agreeing – lies, he's just not admitting it – but his foster parents all but push him out the door. They're encouraging when it comes to anything appropriately social or extracurricular. He gets it. He's not a bad kid and he's seen the books around the house._

_So, with his mandatory five-dollar gift in hand, he knocks. He doesn't personally know the teenager that answers the door, and he'd bet that it isn't even his place, but that doesn't matter to either of them. They exchange manly nods of greeting._

" _Bar's in the kitchen; presents in the living room."_

_Then he leaves Callen to close the door._

_The party's in full swing, loud and he does kind of have to shove his way through to the enormous tree that utterly dominates the living room. But then he slides through the crowd. No one even glances his way until he hits the kitchen._

_Alcohol flows freely, as it does when parents are away and the kids are left to play. The room is full of his classmates, many of whom he knows, none of whom he's genuinely friends with. Of course, he's become a pro at 'not making' friends._

" _G?"_

_He spins, shocked. He's kept to himself so who the hell- Oh. Karen._

" _Hi," he manages. Karen. She looks pretty._

" _Thanks," she says with a bright red blush. He's said it aloud. She tucks her hair behind her ear. "I'm glad you came."_

_He spends a lot of time watching people, and yeah, he agreed to go to the winter formal with her, but in his experience he's never seen her looks o coy or so shy._

" _Um. Drink?"_

_Callen shakes his head. He's not a goody-goody or anything, isn't deliberately avoiding alcohol, he's just not a fan of a blurred head. He never has been, really. He's cautious, is what he is._

" _Okay, um, pizza?"_

_His mouth twitches. "I ate at home."_

" _Oh."_

_She doesn't look adorable, he tells himself. The way she sinks her teeth into her lip, quite obviously puzzled as to what to do next. She glances around, quite obviously casting about for something when she gets ambushed._

" _Karen!"_

_It's Mindy. The Mindy who told Karen it was pointless to ask him to winter formal. She's a blur of red hair, peppy, bubbly. Exactly the type of person he takes great pains to avoid in the halls. And yet here he is, watching the not-adorable girl that had the balls to ask him to winter formal, who is quite obviously Mindy's best friend._

" _Karen, did you_  see? _Did you see him?"_

" _Who?"_

_Mindy's eyes are bright, intoxicated. It makes Callen smile._

" _Dean," Mindy says. "Dean Covart. He_ talked _to me, Karen. He knows who I am."_

_Callen bites his lip against the grin threatening. Karen actually glances his way and he can see the 'help me' in her gaze. Normally, date to winter formal or not, he would most definitely have stepped back, let her figure her way out of it. It's not a vindictive thing, he just has that image to uphold. He will not have attachments when he leaves in June._

_Thing is, Mindy follows Karen's gaze his way. "Oh._ Oh _."_

_And he's in trouble._

" _Callen, right? We have biology or chemistry together."_

" _Politics actually," he says, sliding his hands into his pockets._

" _Politics. Ugh. Such a pain, isn't it?" She's already turning back to Mindy and he knows he's not meant to answer. "Are you guys, like, a thing?"_

_Oh. Dear. God._

_Callen keeps his mouth shut. He's not an idiot. He's not biting on that bait. Not a chance in hell. He'll leave it to Karen, who's already shaking her head._

" _No, not-" She looks at him. "Not a thing."_

_He won't contradict her. Okay, yeah, they've been kind of studying together in the library more often and she turns to him first when they're assigned group work in English, but it's not that big of a deal. It's not. It can't be. He won't let it be. Out without attachments._

_Mindy looks between them and nods, as if she's figured out some big secret. The odd, vaguely uncomfortable feeling in his stomach makes him wonder if maybe she has. "Right. Well. Okay. I'm just going to-"_

_She doesn't finish, just starts weaving away leaving Callen and a blushing Karen behind._

" _Um. Wow. So, that's Mindy."_

" _I know Mindy."_

" _Right. Class."_

_Finally he laughs and takes pity on her. "Come on."_

_What's interesting about the whole thing after that is that they're inseparable. He finds it easy, to a certain degree, to talk to her, to tell her things. He doesn't tell her details, of course. He's well-rehersed in bypassing pointed questions, and doesn't give her details. He doesn't tell her he's a foster kid, doesn't tell her he just wants out. She smiles and laughs, looks like she's having fun, and he won't ruin the illusion for her._

_He's good at those. Illusions._

_She even manages at one point to get him up, ready to dance. They get funny looks for that, because he's such a bloody loner and she's so incredibly sweet, but Callen ignores them, if only to make the discomfort disappear from her pretty eyes._

_At the end of the night, just as the party's winding down and everyone's leaving, she looks up at him shyly and tucks her hair behind her ear. He doesn't realize what's happening until her lips brush against his._

" _Merry Christmas, G Callen."_

* * *

"Come over."

She shivers when his hand slides down her arm, like he can't help but touch her. She likes this new side of him she's seeing. She likes it a lot. But she also has something she needs to do tomorrow, and she's not exactly at the point where she's willing to share. Even with Callen. Her hand comes to his chest, because she most definitely doesn't want him to think that this is her changing her mind.

"Not tonight," she says. Her voice is low and quiet, the voice they both know she uses when she's letting people down easy. Well, that and the last thing either of them wants is to be overheard. The OSP party is probably not the best place to be having this conversation. "I have something to do tomorrow."

His face shuts down and she sighs, fisting her hand in his shirt. She has no idea she does it, she just knows she wants him close, doesn't want him to take it the wrong way.

"Tomorrow," she says. "After."

His face dissolves into confusion. "After?"

"Yeah. After my 'something'."

"Oh."

She chuckles a little. "I have one tradition I just… Don't share. With anyone, Callen. And I'm not ready to yet."

She's not begging him, she's telling him. It's just- This one is too close. Much too close.

"Kens-"

She pats his chest, almost awkwardly tentative. "Please, Callen. I'll call when I'm home. Or text. Something."

"Kensi! Kens! Where'd you disappear to? You promised to be my partner for the Minute to Win it challenges!"

Kensi rolls her eyes, but there's a smile at the corners of her mouth. Deeks has been a bit odd over the last couple of days and she's been feeling a bit like she has something to make up for. Plus, she and Callen are surrounded by colleagues and Hetty. Not exactly the right time or place to be, well, canoodling. Or whatever.

Still, she reaches out, gets a hold of his wrist and squeezes gently. "Tomorrow," she says. "I promise."

He knows she's good for it so he watches her leave until a throat clears behind him. Hetty's there, glass of scotch in hand – "It's a  _party_ , Mr. Deeks, of course there's scotch," Callen had heard her say early in the evening – and that look of expectation on her face.

"It seems, Mister Callen, the custodial staff made an interesting discovery in our hacienda. Apparently someone has filled a room on the second floor with fake snow. You wouldn't happen to know anything about that, would you?"


	24. December 24, 2012

Christmas Eve dawns grey and threatens miserable weather. Kensi doesn't mind. Today isn't always the happiest of days anyway.

She stays sprawled on her couch, eyes open, staring at the ceiling. Christmas Eve. She sighs. It is both her favourite and most hated day of the Christmas calendar. It's the first time since the advent calendar started she hasn't jumped up to check the new window. She's not entirely sure she will either. She has her own tradition for Christmas Eve, the only one she's observed religiously since her father's murder.

And the one she feels is most important.

She's connected to this one, intimately. It's a tradition her father started with her and while all of the traditions she's observed with Callen over the course of the holiday season, there is nothing like this one. This one she needs to do by herself. This one she's not yet ready to share.

She's slow to get out of bed. Hetty's given them the day off, deliberately, Kensi knows. She feels good taking her time. She has a long hot shower, indulging herself. Today's tradition is her hardest, by far. So she takes her time, she does things slowly. It's too important for her to rush because of the nerves racing through her. She even turns off her phone. She refuses to have any interruptions. They're all gathering at Sam's for a team party anyway, so she doesn't feel too guilty about it. She has a feeling Hetty knows all and sees all. If something goes wrong, she's pretty sure Hetty would be able to find her.

She doesn't wear anything particularly special. She's in a red sweater and jeans. She pins her hair back in a sleek bun, but it's the only fancy part of her outfit. She has a moment of brief panic when she can't find the three candles she's bought specifically for today. After that, she throws on her jacket and climbs in her car. It's a solemn, silent, solitary drive, the way it always has been. Even when she'd do it with her father, they never spoke, never turned on the radio.

She drives and drives and drives because the little place she needs is a rare section of full, quiet foliage in the urban landscape of Los Angeles. She pulls into the parking lot and while there are lots of cars, the place isn't full. She takes a moment, like she's always had to do since she started the tradition of up again.

The Memory Garden.

It's hard for her. Every year she comes, she thinks that she shouldn't be doing this alone. She shouldn't be doing it without her dad. Maybe she shouldn't even be doing it without Jack. Maybe she should have told Callen. The last one, she disregards almost the minute she thinks it. They're not in a place where she feels like the real significance will settle in. They've made great steps – massive steps – and even though she's not ready to share it, she finds herself wondering if maybe one day, she will be.

A knock on the window startles her, but she smiles almost immediately when her mind registers who stands on the other side of her door. "Andy!"

The man, white haired and jolly as Santa, laughs as she all but catapults out of the SUV and into his waiting hug. Andy's run this little sanctuary for over thirty years. He's known her since she was a little girl. His steel-trap memory had kept her filed away so the first year she'd returned to LA and made a stop on Christmas Eve at his particular version of paradise, he'd greeted her with a hug and a smile that had almost brought her to tears. She knows he looks out for her Christmas Eve, even scouts out the best branches for her candles.

"My girl," he says, his voice low and gruff. It still carries hints of his Scottish homeland and it makes her stomach warm. "How are you?"

"Good," she answers honestly. They've been through hell this year, her team, but she feels like there have been changes. Good changes. Necessary changes. And some good things looming on the horizon that give her hope.

He pulls back, holds her at arms length. "You look good."

"I feel good," she answers with a grin.

"That job not working you into the ground?"

She grins, and lets go of him only long enough to grab her bag out of the front seat. She locks her car with the remote as she links arms with him. "Doesn't it always?"

Andy sighs. She's not sure her grin can get wider. He's always been there for her, every Christmas Eve. A smile, a hug, fatherly advice, fatherly nagging. The first couple of years after her father's death it drove her nuts. Now, Christmas doesn't feel the same without it.

"How many candles this year."

"Still just three," she says quietly. "We've been lucky."

"Better than four." Andy offers her a bit of a sad smile. He knows in her line of work three could turn to four at any moment.

"Coming?" she asks, holding out a hand. She was a mess after Jack left, and Andy hadn't been able to let her do it alone. Now she offers, because it means something.

Andy links his arm with hers and leads her down the broad path. She sighs when she hits the clearing, as she always does. She knows what she's here to do but that doesn't mean that it makes it any easier.

"I've got just the tree," he says, leading her to the left. He weaves down a smaller path and stops in front of a tree Kensi kind of wishes was the one in her home.

She sucks in a deep breath, then reaches into her bag to withdraw the three candles and a lighter. The tree is covered with small, empty lanterns and she pulls one down, sliding the candle inside. She very carefully monitors her breathing as she lights the candle and hangs the lantern back on the tree. She repeats it twice more as Andy stands by. Then she steps back and he links his arm with hers again.

They stand in silence for a moment before Andy asks, "What was that thing your dad used to say when he'd hang these?"

Kensi smiles. "Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It is not rude, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth." She has to stop and choke back tears, just for a moment before she resolutely pushes onward. "It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. Love never fails. And now these three remain: faith, hope and love."

"And the greatest of these is love," Andy murmurs because she can't finish around the tears. His arm slides around her waist, pulls her into him. She goes willingly, a bit of a mess. But it's just Andy. She doesn't have to be strong with Andy.

Eventually, she sniffles and pulls back. He doesn't ask, just leads her back down the path to the little cabin that serves as headquarters. It's cozy. It's Andy's home. She sits on the couch while he makes cider, bringing her a steaming mug like he's done since she was a child.

"We caught him, you know," she says quietly, looking down into her mug. "Dad's killer."

"That's good."

"I thought it would be better."

Andy laughs a little. "Isn't that always the way?"

Kensi flashes a bit of a weak smile. "My mom's back too."

He hums a little. "I've never met her."

"Yeah," she sighs.

"And?" he prompts. She hates that he knows.

"And I think-" She has to stop, has to swallow. The words are clogging in her throat. Andy reaches out, put his hand on her knee, squeezes, prompting. So she takes a deep breath and says, "I think I'm falling in love."

* * *

The thing about the Memory Garden is that it wipes her out. She could go home and nap, but what she does is just sit. She just sits on her couch after she gets home, doesn't even remove her shoes or her jacket.

She's numb.

She loves the Memory Garden. She has to do it. It's the one tradition she's stuck with, through thick and thin. She's had good years – she took Jack after they got engaged, for example – and bad ones, like the year she'd had to bring a third candle because they'd lost Dom. This year, thankfully, it's just an average year. There's nothing to add, and she's okay with that. The only problem is that the Memory Garden does exactly that: it brings up memories.

Her mind is flashing, images, voices, phrases, events. She can remember the first time her dad tried to braid her hair and the first time Jack dumped her into a snowdrift. She remembers explaining to Dom about peeing in a bottle and the look on the MP's faces when they arrived at her door to deliver the news about her father.

It makes her numb.

So she misses his entrance, just feels the way the couch sinks beneath his weight. She's so numb it doesn't even make her jump.

"Kens?"

She says nothing, but she kind of tips sideways, falling against his body. His arms come around her out of reflex and it speaks to how far they've come. It's an easy thing, a simple comfort that she absorbs willingly.

"When I was a little girl, my dad took me to this forest. Well, I thought it was a forest. I remember it as a forest. I was really little."

He doesn't say anything, but she feels his cheek rest on the top of her head.

"A Memory Garden." She swallows. "I'm not sure when I really realized what we were doing, but the idea is that you light a candle for everyone you want to remember. Maybe they left, maybe they died, maybe they just can't be with you that holiday season, but you light a candle for them."

He continues to stay quiet, but when it becomes obvious she's not going to add anything, he speaks. "That's where you went tonight."

She hums her agreement. "It's the one tradition that I can't share."

Because it makes her so very vulnerable.

He doesn't have to ask why. He doesn't have to ask any questions, actually. The little she has shared is more than enough to figure out what's going on, more than enough to understand why she isn't ready to share this with anyone. So instead of asking questions, he tugs her closer, wraps her up in his arms.

And just holds on.


	25. December 25, 2012

_She wakes Christmas morning to an empty bed._

_It's not unheard of. Since Jack's return she's barely woken to him beside her. The PTSD is brutal for his sleep patterns. She's used to it. It sucks, but she's used to it._

_With a sigh she pulls herself out of bed, throwing off the sheets and blankets. She pads down the hall. He's not in the living room._

" _Jack?"_

_The kitchen is empty too. Her heart leaps to her throat._

_No._

_Just no._

_She starts to get frantic, looks through all the closets – sometimes the enclosed spaces make him feel safe. She can't count the number of times she's found him just standing in the shower – and races around the yard. She can't find him. Can't find him anywhere._

_She races back in the bedroom and that's where she finds it. Unassuming, settled gently on his pillow. She can already feel the tears welling up in her throat._

_No._

_Not again._

_Not Jack too._

_But sure enough, it's a note._

Kensi,  
I can't do this. I'm broken, sweetheart. I can't live a normal life. I can't sleep, I barely eat, I can't stop seeing the enemy in every person I meet, in every sound I hear.  
I'm going back to Montana. But Kensi, it's not you. It's never been you. You have been there, every step of the way, every moment, every single step since I got back. And I can't drag you down anymore. Not you.  
You've been through so much already and I love you. I love you so much.  
And that's why I need to let you go.  
I love you, Kensi.

_There are tears staining the note when she finishes, her chest is heaving. She can't breathe, she can barely think._

_He's gone._

_Just like her father._

_She sobs, hard and long. She's not sure how long she cries she just knows her eyes are sore and her cheeks itch like crazy from the dried salt water. When she doesn't think she can cry anymore she pulls herself from the bed, the bed they shared, and heads into the bathroom. She scrubs her face until her eyes catch on the diamond on her hand. She hiccups again, can feel the tears she thought she'd cried welling up again. So she tears it off her finger and shoves it in a dresser drawer on the way by._

_Then, systematically, she dismantles Christmas._

_She doesn't think she'll be celebrating anymore._

* * *

 

They say it takes three weeks to make a habit.

When Kensi wakes on December 25th, stretching in the pool of sunlight spreading over her bed, she thinks that maybe there's some merit in the theory. Three weeks ago, at the beginning of December, Kensi couldn't imagine feeling calm and even content on Christmas Day. But those are exactly the feelings she associates with the warmth threading through her veins. A smile blossoms over her face as she turns her head into her pillow. It's an involuntary action.

Happy.

On Christmas.

It's the darkest holiday for her. It always has been. Other holidays like Thanksgiving are just food holidays, holidays she can spend with the team and not feel the loneliness of not having family. But Christmas – There's just always been too much. Jack's departure and her father's death… It's just different.

But instead, she's smiling. She wants to get up, to start the day. She wants to smile and laugh and stare at her tree. She wants to watch Christmas movies, listen to carols –

"Morning."

And she wants to do it with Callen.

She pushes herself into a sitting position, running her fingers through her bedhead. "Morning. How long have you been up?"

"Long enough," he replies, stepping into the room. He's carrying two mugs and she holds her hand out, murmuring her thanks as he slides the ceramic into her grip. Her eyes flutter closed as she takes her first sip.

He's already leaning in as she lowers the mug. She barely manages to place her coffee on the bedside table before his mouth meets hers. Her hand rises to his cheek, brushing over his temple, across the roughness of his buzzed head. She rests it against the back of his head, against his neck, He shifts, presses, and she slides back down to the pillows. His hand support himself by her head – she doesn't even think about where his coffee's gone, she barely has the brain power – while her free arm slides around his waist.

"Merry Christmas," he murmurs when the kiss parts naturally.

Her smile is an echo of his, no hidden darkness. It makes her wonder if maybe his Christmas hasn't been so bad either. She doesn't think so, at any rate. He's been with her the whole time, and she's pretty sure he hasn't been faking his smiles. He looks content, like he could just lounge in her bed with her all day.

Eventually, she looks over and murmurs, "Thank you."

"It's just a coffee, Kens."

She rolls her eyes, reaching for her mug again. "I'm not talking about-"

"I know."

She lifts her gaze to his and finds him looking back, enough intensity in those blue eyes to make her body erupt in gooseflesh. He knows exactly what she means.

Still.

"Thank you for Christmas."

"Kens-"

"Callen." She has no idea what it is in her voice that makes him stop but he does, those clear intense blues still fixed on her. "Thank you for Christmas. For celebrating, for sharing. It- It became more than I could have ever expected."

And that's an understatement. She went in to celebrate Christmas, to make it light again. Instead it's more. It's the two of them kissing over cookies, lounging comfortably in her bed, his arms around her while she tries to struggle through the emotions she still associates with the holidays. It's her tree in the living room, the decorations and mistletoe kisses.

"For me too," he tells her softly.

She feels a blush slides up her neck. "It's not just Christmas. It's- It's us."

His hand falls to her thigh and she just barely resists the shiver that drills down her spine at the touch.

"Usually I curl up all day and I don't have a tree or decorations. I barely get out of bed. But this year there's you. And me. And it started with the calendar but we haven't seen it in a while."

"We haven't needed it."

Her smiles is, once again, involuntary. "Yeah."

He smiles too then reaches over to stroke her cheek. "Me too."

Her eyes meet his, focused. "I don't- I don't-"

"I don't want it to end."

"No," she barely manages to breathe, her heart in her throat. They've made leaps and bounds in their relationship and she most definitely doesn't want to let it go either. "It's insane."

"Completely."

"It'll be really stressful."

"Probably."

"We work together."

"Yes."

Thing is though, that doesn't seem to be making a difference in the way he's looking at her. She gets the sense that all of these problems, all of these issues, don't bother him very much at all.

She swallows. "I want to make this work."

"Then let's make it work."

"Yeah?" She can hear the shyness in her voice, feel the butterflies in her stomach.

"Yeah," he affirms, leaning over.

Kensi meets him easy, kissing him back through the grin on her face. It seems to be a permanent fixture on her face but she can't help it. It's her darkest day and yet, it's most certainly becoming a brand new beginning.

Merry Christmas, indeed.


End file.
